


The Lost Art of Letter Writing

by notjustmom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, deaths of minor characters mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 50,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: This is my attempt to write at least 2,000 words a day on one story, for the 2018 NaNoWriMo.This was inspired by an episode of Bones, in which a character of the episode was a professional letter/document writer. Sherlock is the letter writer of this story, he is not a consulting detective, he is a reclusive artist/writer who writes letters for people who cannot express themselves. Yes, it's the regular cast of characters, and yes, the two idiots meet... The first chapter, it may be broken down into smaller bits later, but for now, I'm going to try posting each days' writing into one chapter.





	1. Chapter 1

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. So medicine, law, business, engineering... these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love... these are what we stay alive for.”  
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

 

1.28.1994

 

Will -

You are the writer, the artist out of us, the one who will do the great BIG things. I wish I had the poetry, the words in me, to tell you everything I want to tell you.

If I could, if it were allowed, I'd marry you, tomorrow, tonight, next week. Donovan would be our best, well, best mate, we'd grab a couple witnesses off the street, you'd be nervous, playing with your hair, your perfectly insane hair, and you'd bite your lip, but your eyes would start to well up as I slid the ring on your finger. You - I am the luckiest bloke, Will, to have spent most of my speaking life by your side, and I hope to spend the next half century, at least, driving you crazy.

I love you, my beautiful, brilliant, amazing man -

\- Trev.

P.S. Consider the enclosed as a promise ring, for the day will come when the world gets its collective head out of its arse and we will do the deed at a moment's notice.

William shook the ring out into his hand, a plain gold band, save for the one word engraved on the inside, "Always".

 

“There is a fearful splendor in absolute desolation.”  
― James Baldwin

 

1\. 29. 1994

Trev -

Yes. Yes, of course, yes. 

Yours, always,  
Will

 

1\. 29. 1995

Trev - 

Almost made it out of bed. Sal managed to go out and get some take-away, she made me eat a couple of bites, think it was a lo mein. We put on the telly, and Robin Hood was on, the one you love, Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland, somehow we made it through to the end, I could almost feel your head against my chest, I wish I could believe in ghosts, so I could pretend… I miss you, so much,

-Will

 

2\. 3. 1996

He honestly thought it was a joke, when she presented him with the tiny pug puppy, with the crazy eyes and the ever-smiling mouth, with the pink tongue, so he laughed for the first time in two years. Laughed until he couldn't stop, laughed until the laughter turned into hiccups, and then he looked at the leash in his hand and knew she was serious.

"She needs a walk."

"Donovan."

"You need a walk."

He looked into the pug's eyes, then nodded. "Name?"

"Doesn't have one, thought you should have the honours, as she belongs to you."

"No one -"

"You are responsible for her."

"I was responsible for him."

"No, love. You weren't. You loved him, didn't make you responsible for him."

"Viola."

Donovan nodded. "Good enough. I put two bowls in the kitchen, one for food, one for water, and there's a bag of dog food in the cabinet. I will take care of the shopping and vet visits, but you are going to walk her at least twice a day. Got it? I have things to do - I will see both of you tonight, Bond night, yeah?" She placed a kiss on his cheek, then rubbed the evidence away, gently scratched between Viola’s ears, and blew them both a kiss before she closed the door.

"So, Viola," Sherlock muttered to the dog who grinned at him, and he couldn't help but smile. "I'm guessing you need a walk already. Dirty, dirty trick Sally Donovan. Alright, shoes. Where are my shoes? Door, by the door, right. Coat. What time of year is it anyway, think, what was Donovan wearing... coat and gloves. That silly hat I gave her five years ago. Sentiment. Coat. Scarf. Gloves. Leash. Dog. Probably should carry you down. Right. Outside. Good. Don't think about it. Just a walk. Right, Vi?”

He checked his pockets for his keys and phone, though he wondered why, as he locked the door, there was no one he wanted to hear from, except for… no. Turn around and go down the stairs, one, two… seriously? Breathe, just breathe… seven, eight, did you eat breakfast today, yes, toast with your tea, breathe, what else did you do, today? Twelve… thought about painting, picked up a book, read a couple of pages of Rilke, not sure what the point was… fifteen…

“Sherlock?” Martha Hudson opened the door to her flat and shook her head at him. “Sal told me what she was planning, didn’t think she’d actually do it, but I should know better by now. What’s her name, then?”

“Viola.”

“Ah… ‘Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions and spirit  
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast! Soft,  
soft!  
Unless the master were the man. How now…’”*

“1970. Your Olivia has never been matched. Could have given me a bit of warning?”

Ms. Hudson winked at him, then scratched Viola’s head and whispered to her, “you are a love, aren’t you, Vi. What? And spoil the surprise? Gonna be alright on yer own? I could walk with you, it’s still early yet.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Nah, Martha, need to do this on my own first go ‘round. It’s Bond night, if you could send up an order of your fish and chips around eightish?”

“Of course. Knock on my door when you get back and we’ll have tea.”

“Ta, Ms. H.” He bowed lightly in her direction, then put Viola down, and gave her time to get her bearings before he opened the door. He closed his eyes and took a breath in, letting London wash over him for the first time since… oh, Sally… He blinked back tears, starting when he felt his phone go off in his pocket.

“Make it outside, yet?”

“Nearly. I’m at the front door, didn’t remember what day it was, Sal, until just now. How? How did I forget?”

“You didn’t, sweetie, just a bit of distraction refocused your mind for a few minutes, that’s all. Just take her around the block, let her do her business, then go back home. He -”

“Yeah, I know, Sal. He’d be - he’d be telling me to get a move on, and drag me into a tea shop and make me eat a scone before I even realised it… why, Sally? Why him?”

“Dunno. Even if we knew the answer, it wouldn’t make it any better, I don’t think. Now, go on, before Myc realises you’ve left the flat and sends out those silent men in black after you.”

“Hell. Right. See you tonight, Martha’s going to send up some dinner -”

“Fish and chips?”

“Of course.”

“Love you.”

“Love you back.” He sighed as he returned the phone to his pocket and noted the two men doing the best they could to blend in with the scenery, but he knew them by sight and they nodded nearly imperceptibly in his direction as he finally took the final step over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

 

“He found something that he wanted, had always wanted and always would want -- not to be admired, as he had feared; not to be loved, as he had made himself believe; but to be necessary to people, to be indispensable...'very few things matter and nothing matters very much”  
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

 

1.29.2004

“Doc?”

“Yeah, Cap?”

“We’re bloody well screwed, aren’t we?”

“You want me to be honest, or blow sunshine up yer arse?”

Captain Gregory Lestrade glanced skyward at a brilliant blue sky, even as they shivered in two day old snow and managed to chuckle. “Think I’ve had enough sunshine to last me three lifetimes, mate. Radio’s dead, we have enough water for a day and a half and no ammo left…”

“We’re bloody well screwed.” His lieutenant grinned back at him.

“Ta fer that.”

“Nah, we’ll be fine. It’s the 29th, ain’t it Robbie’s due date?” 

Lestrade looked down at his watch and nodded. “Yeah, so it is, Doc, so it is.” He smiled at his friend, then took off his sunglasses. “If fer some reason -”

“Cap.”

“Just promise me, Doc. If something happens, you’ll keep an eye out for him?”

“Course, Cap. You and Angie are family. But yer gonna make it home. Understood?” John H. Watson growled back at his friend and pushed a bottle of water into his hand. “I promised her I’d get you home, Cap, we’ll get out of this mess somehow.”

 

1.29.2006

“Doc - sorry, John.”

“No, it’s okay, Sir. I miss -”

Lestrade met his friend’s eyes and nodded. “Yeah, me too. So, Doc, ready for your first crime scene?”

“Yeah, Cap. I’m ready.

 

3.31.2007

“Molly Annabeth Christina Hooper, what did you do?”

“John Hamish Three Continents Watson, this is what is called a ‘surprise party.’ You know, something a friend does for their best friend who has managed to turn thirty-seven in spite of all of the times he has done his best not to. And now, you say thank you, and blow out the bloody candles before my lovely flat bursts into flames.”

“Thank you? You got all thirty-seven candles on that cake?”

“Thirty-eight, one for luck.”

John swore under his breath, then blew out each and every candle without setting off the smoke alarm to thunderous applause and whistles.

“Yay, Unca Doc!” Robbie Lestrade shrieked as he wrapped his arms around John’s knees and held on tight. “Cake!!!”

John lifted him in the air and hugged him tightly. “Yeah, cake and ice cream?”

“Yeah!!!!”

“Of course, yeah. Go grab a seat at the table next to your dad and I’ll bring it over, yeah?”

“Ta, Unca Doc.” Robbie scrambled out of his arms carefully, and ran over to the table.

“You don’t really mind, do you, John?” Molly whispered at him, as she started to remove the candles. “I just thought, since the last two have been kinda shitty, I thought, this year…”

“No, I don’t mind, Molly. I don’t mind at all.” He helped her take out the last candles, then pulled her into a hug. “Sorry, Mol. Sorry, I’ve been -”

“Don’t you dare apologise to me of all people. I just, I’m just glad, I’m just glad you are here, that’s all.”

 

“The beginning is perhaps more difficult than anything else, but keep heart, it will turn out all right.”  
― Vincent van Gogh

 

1.29.1994

“We gotta clear the - sorry, what’s your name?”

“Will - Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.” He was still sitting by the side of the road, staring at his hands, as if he expected them to be covered in blood.

“Uhm, Sherlock, you - your friend, Ms. Donovan, I got her a taxi over to Speedy’s - they seem to know her there.”

“Will you be able to determine who did it? Who hit him, who killed Trev?”

DC Lestrade sat down next to him and removed his hat, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, I dunno. Visibility… and the witnesses, sorry, hell, this is my first day.”

“Congratulations, DC -”

“Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade. No one ever remembers my first name.”

“DC Gregory Lestrade, I will remember. Thank you for your honesty. We, Trev and I own - well, it’s just me now, I suppose, Speedy’s.”

“But -”

“I’m older than I look. I just turned twenty-one this month. When you get done here, stop by for a pint, just ask for Ms. Hudson and tell her I told you your first two are on the house. I’m in your way. Thanks again, Gregory -”

“Call me Greg.”

“Greg. Very well.” Lestrade watched as he got to his feet and somehow made it to a taxi. He bit his lip as Sherlock looked out the window and realised he had never seen anyone really mourn until now, even though he hadn’t shed a single tear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *from Twelfth Night


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter concerns Trev's death near the end of the chapter, may be triggering for people who have a hard time with a character's death, and the reactions to it by other characters. Short panic attack described.

“the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.”  
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

 

They weren’t twins, as Will had to remind them on those ridiculous ‘twins days’ at school, but they were born on February 3, 1973, at the same hospital, their mums had even shared the same midwife. As she was running between the two rooms, she wished she had had the foresight to put them in the same room, but then it occurred to her that she could have that extra Jaffa Cake she had promised herself if she lost two more pounds before Valentine’s Day after she delivered two newborns within two minutes of each other. Trev always claimed he was the oldest whenever they got into one of those arguments that they forgot two minutes after it concluded, but Sally would roll her eyes and shake her head. 

“Trev. Will will always be older than both of us, he was born nearly a month before us.”

“Still.” But the twinkle in his eye always gave him away, he never stayed angry for long. In fact, as Sherlock considered later, he rarely became angry, save for the injustice in the world. It started early in Trev, he wanted to save every baby bird they would find in the spring that had fallen before it could fly, each busker would receive a few coins even when Will knew he was saving up for something, and would stand and listen to the music until it was over, and thank the musician, no matter the quality of the playing. Though he had an ear for music, and would rarely be wrong. He was rarely wrong about anything, Sherlock shook his head as he recalled all the times they nearly came to blows over a disagreement over some textual issue, even though Trev was pre-med, and Will was studying Elizabethan drama at the time. Trev was inevitably, implausibly correct.

 

But, we are ahead of the story. You want to know how they met, the three unlikely friends, who from the time they laid eyes on each other were rarely separated until one was taken far too early, leaving the other two to struggle on afterwards.

From the beginning, when their exhausted mums decided they needed to take their three-year olds to the park, the universe seemed to shift. It had been too hot that summer, especially that July, and the tube was on strike that day, on that Tuesday, but once the three children were placed in the sandbox and encouraged to play together, a gentle breeze blew, the three mums collapsed onto the bench in relief and began to chat. The nattering went on until the sky grew dark and the rains finally cooled everything down. At that first meeting, the three children built a sandcastle together, but no words were exchanged. Trev was, depending on whose version of the story you believe, the second oldest or youngest of the three, but he would always be the tallest, and he was the one who smiled first. Will wondered at this boy who smiled, he didn’t know people who smiled easily for no apparent reason, then he returned his focus to the symmetry of the castle, balance and order were important even then. Sally, whose given name was Sarah-Anne, named for some long dead great great aunt who was an early suffragist, was never called anything but Sally, but she could never recall whether it was her mum or da or older brother who had called her that first, or if her name had been bestowed upon her by one of the two boys. She always assumed it was Will - he had a way of naming things, putting words together in a certain way…

“Nope. It was Trev.” Sherlock muttered as he stared out the window.

“Really?”

“Hmm. Second time we met at the park. Our mums finally introduced us formally to each other, and as soon as they went over to the bench and began chatting, Trev looked at you and shook his head. ‘Sally.’ He squinted at me and grinned, ‘Will. They call me Victor, but -’ ”

“Trev.” Will had whispered.

“Trev.” Sally had nodded.

 

By the time they were five, they called each other by their surnames; Holmes, and Donovan, but Victor Trevor was always Trev, even in the last moment of his life.

 

"No. Trev - Trev, you promised me, you promised, I love you - you can't leave, not now, please?"

"Sorry, Will - love you." Will whimpered into Trev's copper hair as he felt his pulse stop under his fingers.

Donovan tried to pull him back before they took Trev away, but he couldn't let him go. "No. Donovan - don't - let them, it’s not time, I’m not ready, it wasn’t - we weren’t, we were supposed to..." Somehow she managed to pull him away long enough for them to get him on the stretcher and quickly get him in the van before Will could stop them.

 

“Sherlock?” Donovan heard his breathing change, then rasp, the beginnings of a panic attack. He wasn’t really with her, he was back there on the wet pavement, trying to get his lover and best friend to take another breath, just one more breath, then another. “Holmes. Will?” She wrapped her arms lightly around him and held him until she heard him gasp out a sob.

“I’ve never -” he mumbled under his breath. “I haven’t cried, Sally. I’ve never cried for him. I loved him so much, still love him, and I haven’t shed a single tear for him. In fourteen years. Does that make me a terrible person?”

She tightened her arms around him and breathed with him until he caught his breath, then rested her head between his shoulder blades. “No. Of course not. People mourn in different ways…”

“You cried for three straight days, we didn’t leave my bedroom for a week, on the fourth day, you stopped and fell asleep, and woke up two days later. I haven’t - Sal. You’d think fourteen years would be enough time, enough time to stop hearing his laughter, seeing his smile in my head. Feeling him around me. Do you think if I cried -?”

Donovan waited for a moment, then took him by the hand and led him to the couch, pulling him down next to her as she sat down. He stretched out and closed his eyes as she ran her long fingers through his curls. “Do you remember, the day you broke your arm? We were eight. Climbing one of those trees in the park. You went one branch higher than us, and we heard this crash. You had somehow managed to fall backwards off the branch, but you twisted in midair so you didn’t fall on your back, you broke your arm, snapped the bones in half, dislocated your shoulder, scratched up your face.” She rolled up his right sleeve, and ran her fingers over the old surgical scars. “You never cried. Not once. You were so quiet. Trev cried for you, the tears just streamed down his face, but he didn’t make a sound as we waited, just ran his fingers through your curls, he wouldn’t let the ambulance take you unless we were in there with you. I sat on your left side and held your hand, you kept your eyes on mine, so I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t let you see how scared I was. Trevor sat on the right, and then he started humming some song, and then he started singing. He was so musical in his head, could hear when something was off when someone else played it, but he couldn’t sing. The one thing he couldn’t do… what was it?”

“ ‘..Why do fools fall in love?  
Why do birds sing so gay?  
And lovers await the break of day  
Why do they fall in love?...’ “

Sherlock snorted and squeezed his eyes shut. “He was trying to do it in Diana Ross’s voice, he was just terrible, and he knew it. He was trying to make me laugh. I couldn’t look at him. I could hear it in his voice that he was crying, if I had looked at him I would have lost it. But, Donovan, you just held my hand, you didn’t even blink, you didn’t say a word, and he just kept singing… whenever I hear that song…” his voice faded then stopped completely.

“Sal. I’m beginning to forget what he looked like.” He buried her face against her thigh and tried to stop the tears from falling. She kissed his curls, then drew circles on his back, and she felt him relax against her.

“Brilliant copper hair, he always kept it long, pulled back in a braid, you loved braiding it for him, you would spend hours brushing it for him when he had a bad day, it was the only thing that helped on those days, those days when he couldn’t talk, or eat, except for what you fed him. You kept him from -”

“What colour were his eyes, Sal?”

“Silver, not grey, people always thought they were grey, they weren’t. Burnished silver - never seen anyone with eyes like that since him. But when he smiled, god, when he smiled, or when you entered a room, they went sea green. There were times when I thought he wasn’t from this planet. He shimmered, Sherlock, for you. You were, the two of you - were like one person, and yet, you two always made me feel wanted, loved, I don’t know how - he loved you so much, Sherlock.”

“If -”

“No, Sherlock. You didn’t make it happen. It was an accident, a bloody, stupid arse driver took him from us, a driver who wasn’t paying attention, then left him on the street to die in the rain. It was bad timing, bad luck, and not your fault."

“I miss him, Sal.”

“I know, sweetie.”

Sherlock sat up carefully and wiped his eyes, then looked at his watch. “Almost eight, nearly time for fish and chips and Bond.”

“We don’t have to -”

“No, it’s Bond night - we, he - I’m gonna go wash my face, then take Vi out one more time.” He looked into her eyes and tried to smile at her. “I didn’t forget this year, Sal.” He got up from the couch and walked up the stairs, returning with a parcel wrapped in brown paper two minutes later. “It’s from memory, the photographs, they don’t, cameras never quite captured him, or you for that matter.”

Donovan struggled to breathe as she undid the string and opened the paper, to reveal a portrait of three children as they had been the very first day they met. The sandcastle which was washed out by a summer storm thirty-two years earlier was recalled in exact detail, the way the light made Trev’s hair shine was how she remembered it, and she was wearing her favorite striped t-shirt and cutoff shorts, and had taken off her trainers, he had remembered the bright red toenail polish which had faded… and Will, as he was then, his tight raven curls in disarray, a young, serious face, was intent on adding one more scoop of sand…

“Holmes.”

“Happy Birthday, Donovan.”

She cleared her throat and she tried to look away as she felt tears well up in her eyes. He shook his head and kissed her forehead. “It’s okay, Donovan, as long as we are still here, he won’t be forgotten, not ever, I promise. Now. I’m gonna walk Vi, and then see what’s holding up dinner, why don’t you open the bottle of wine, hmm? I’ll be right back, Sal.”

She nodded and didn’t turn to watch them leave the flat, as she whispered to the little boy in the portrait. “Happy Birthday, sweetie. We miss you. I’m doing my best, Trev. But he, he needs someone. Someone who will see him as you do - did. Please?” She wondered again at her friend who kept these memories for her, for all of them, only to release them in paint, as clear as if it had happened just yesterday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More angst... We'll get through it eventually. Also the worlds of John and Sherlock begin to intersect.

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”  
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

 

12.26.1985

Dear John -

I’m not sure how to write this, but I can’t live here anymore. It’s not your fault, or Harry’s, or even your father’s fault. I just can’t be here. I need to go somewhere else, be someone else. Maybe one day you will understand. I know you won’t believe me, but I love you, so very much.

Love,  
Mum

 

3.31.1988

Harry -

I got accepted into Oxford, full ride. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? That’s what I thought. I thought if I studied hard enough, played hard enough, did everything else right - but no, it’s not enough for Da. So I’m joining up, I want to become someone Da might at least respect somehow. I know I’m just kidding myself. Since he found out his son is - since I won’t be giving a son my name, he doesn’t give a fuck (sorry). But I’m tired of the grind, Harry. I’m tired of being what other people want, or expect, I’m gonna go serve Queen and Country, not so sure about God. If there is one, he hasn’t had my back.

I’ll write you when I can. I love you, Harry.

-J

1.29.1994

Harry -

Fer chrissakes, let me know when we are almost out of milk, would you? I’ll be home late, again. Anatomy… what the fuck was I thinking?

J -

I did tell you, maybe you were half-asleep. You can do this, you are the smartest guy I know. I’ll quiz you when I get home, maybe we get take-away and watch some crap telly after? I’ll pick up some milk on my way home. 

 

Undated 

John -  
I really think you are a wonderful man, and I think one day, you’ll meet him, ‘the’ one. If we had a little more time, I mean, I know, I do, your work comes first, and I knew that, I just hoped, well, thing is, I met someone. It’s not your fault, sometimes, things just happen. I wish you the best. Sorry.

-T

 

9.15.1999

H -

Angie’s husband was brought in this afternoon. Damn, I really hate guns. I just realised that today. I think he’s gonna be okay, but she needs me to be there, I think she thinks if I’m there it will make a difference. Sorry about movie night, Happy Birthday, Harry. The big 2-5. Love you.

 

8.14.03

Love-

You remember, when you and J were last on leave, and as an anniversary present he got us a couple nights in that fancy hotel, he said something about strange beds? Well, he was right. I’m finally pregnant. We’re finally going to have a baby, Greg. I wish you were here, I miss you. Tell J thank you and give him a big kiss from me. Do you want to know if it’s going to be a boy or a girl, or do you want it to be a surprise when you two finally get home?

-A

 

3.31.2009

John looked up at the sky as he left the pub. “Of course it waited for me to walk out for the rain to start, naturally. Should have listened to Harry. Bloody hell, how much did I drink? Molly must’ve spiked my pint. You really have to stop talking to yourself. Yeah, probably a good idea. Too late to text Greg, he never minds, but - what the hell?” He stopped and picked up what looked like handmade paper, folded, unfolded and refolded, many times over, something special then. Czech. If his fingers didn’t deceive him. “Light. I need my kit…” He placed the paper carefully in his pocket, then sighed as the skies opened up and he headed home.

 

January 29, 2009 

 

Colin -

I am hesitant to put pen to paper, but I see no other way how to tell you, that my day truly only begins when you knock lightly at my office door each morning, push it open just enough, and lean in just far enough to look me over and nod a greeting to me, before slipping away to your own office. 

There is something about being seen. By you.

By you, alone, that allows me to breathe better. 

I have never been in love before, but, I have an idea that this must be what this is. Terrible sentence. I know, but I have the feeling that my very difficulty in finding the right words, the correct syntax, must tell you something of my feelings for you. 

Please, if you have any understanding of what I am trying to communicate to you, if you have any compassion for me. Damn it, Col! You must know, you must have sensed it, by now, all this time. Please, give me some hint, an idea, of your own thoughts. No, actually, I don't want your thoughts. No, if thoughts are all you have to offer me, kindly keep them to yourself. If you have feelings for me, at all, you know where to find me.

Yours, always,  
Paul

 

John’s hand shook as he read it, then reread it. It wasn’t beautiful. It was someone putting their heart on paper, and it was messy, and awkward, and the most passionate thing he’d ever read in his life, and he briefly wondered if he had ever once made anyone feel that way. No. What must it be like to feel something that strongly? He had never felt that way. No, not true. He had felt rage in that way, and whatever feeling it was that helped him to get himself and Greg out of - out of hell - but he’d never felt the desperation, the need for a single person like this letter conveyed. The part about being seen. To be seen by someone in that way. 

“Stop.”

“You are a fucking forensic scientist. This is evidence. Evidence. Treat it like any other piece of evidence. For now forget the words. Talking to yourself again, Doc. Never a good sign. Kit. You need your kit. Gloves. Breathe. Focus. Focus, Doc. You got this.”

 

1.29.2009

 

"Sherlock. Sweetie. You know I know you are home. You know I have a key. I will get in." Donovan sighed with a bit of relief as she heard a rustling inside the flat. She pressed her forehead and palms against the door and closed her eyes. “Will.” She bit her lip knowing she had gone too far, especially calling him by his old name, the name that had died even before they scattered Victor's ashes in the park, in their park, how long ago now. Fifteen years, now. "Don't make me call Myc. You know I will..." She nearly fell into the flat when Sherlock threw open the door and glared at her before turning away.

"You know I don't work today.” He sighed and turned back to look at her. "You look like shit, Sal. Tea?"

She dropped onto the couch and curled up into a tight ball. "Please."

He shuffled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, then walked back to the couch and rolled his eyes at the lump. "Budge up." Donovan sat up just enough for him to sit next to her, then collapsed into his lap and whimpered as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

"Hit me today, hard - I had a dream that he called - I even looked at my phone and checked, just to be sure. It was a client." She felt Sherlock's fingers freeze in her hair and she cleared her throat. "Willing to pay double. We haven't had a good gig in a while - I know - you know I wouldn't even, today of all days, but I thought it might help to have something to focus on, besides -"

"Composing a love letter for an idiot who can't put two decent sentences together - double?"

"I asked for triple and he agreed." She sat up and looked at him. He had managed to shower this morning, and had slept last night, maybe a bit too much, but too much was better than none. "Wear the purple shirt -"

"Aubergine, Sal. When is the interview?"

She pulled out her phone and gave him a sheepish grin. "Ten minutes?"

He rolled his eyes at her, but kissed her forehead and whispered, "it's a good thing I love you."

"I know." She watched as he got up from the couch and walked through the sitting room and disappeared into his bedroom. She collapsed into the foetal position again and closed her eyes, remembering, yet trying not to.

 

From the time their mothers had thrown them together as three year olds, Trev, Sherlock (William, then, but once Trev called him Will, that's all he went by) and she were inseparable until that one rainy night, fifteen years ago. Trev was late, always was on Wednesday nights - anatomy class. She and Sherlock had just walked out of the coffee shop to see him grin and wave, and begin to cross the street towards them when the car blew through the red light, throwing him into the air, then speeding away. Sherlock got to him first, he was still breathing, barely, but they all knew -

 

"Sal. Donovan. It's time. Interview? Client?"

"Right. Yeah. Just need a minute. You can start without me."

"Nope. We're a team. I'll wait."

Donovan reached out and ruffled his hair, then nodded. "I'll be right back."

 

Sherlock sighed silently to himself as the client uhmmmed again on his screen. The man was, in his opinion, decent looking enough, had all of his teeth, and going by how much he was willing to pay wasn't hurting financially, so...

"No one knows I'm gay."

Ah.

"And he's, well, I know he just got out of a long term relationship, we're partners -"

"You're -" Banker. Boring.

"In the financial district." Deep breath. Breathe out, breathe in again...

"It isn't widely known, but, I just know -"

Stalker.

"I'm not stalking him, it's just if you know someone for years, you know certain things." Sherlock glanced over at Sally, studied her briefly, and nodded. Not just the anniversary, then. Damn.

"Yes. So... what is it you want the letter to -"

"That's the problem, I don't really know."

Great. Sherlock held his breath for a ten second, maybe twelve second count, then smiled his, 'please, take your time' smile that their business was built upon, had been for what seemed like... forever. It had taken them a few months of stunned existence, essentially sleepwalking through the days and weeks after the 'accident', and the memorial service; Sally had finally left Baker Street, unable to continue mourning in the way that Sherlock had resigned himself to, but she would check on him at least once a day, make sure he was eating - she soon came to understand she had not only lost Trev the night he died, but Will, as she had known him was gone as well. He slowly became a recluse, not leaving the house after they had scattered the ashes for weeks at a time. After one last failed attempt to get him out of the flat, she realised he needed something to do that would connect him to the world in some way, or she would lose him completely. It was when she was trying to create her CV that she saw the possibilities of a business. Will - Sherlock as he was now, was a bit of a luddite, Trev had teased him about his inability to use a computer, and Sherlock had merely shrugged, and told him that one day computers would take over the world and the world would be a worse place for it. Most days, Donovan wasn't sure he was wrong.

 

Their client smiled back in response and Sherlock saw the tension ease from his shoulders. "As you can see from the photograph..." Sherlock put out his hand for the file that Donovan was holding. Auburn, hazel eyes, a bit of sadness in them, full lips, and a nose that could only be called - "...adorable." Sherlock couldn't disagree.

"Likes, dislikes?"

"It's all there in the questionnaire I filled out."

"Yes, yes, I don't review the file until I speak to the client, I like to draw my own conclusions about both parties before I look at the paperwork."

"Of course, apologies, no offense."

"None taken... please continue." Sherlock pressed his fingers together as he always did, though Donovan could see the tension in his face, how tightly he held himself together. She knew she was being unfair to him, but they both needed this today, they needed to find some way to get on with their lives. Perhaps this one letter would be their last. She wasn't sure, but she knew something needed to give.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more... John and Molly. Not so angsty.

“When friendships are real, they are not glass threads or frost work, but the solidest things we can know.”  
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

4.16.2009

“John? It’s two in the morning. Your shift starts in three hours, and you’re drinking coffee?”

“Molly. It’s just something-”

“Not related to a case.”

“No. It’s… you’ll think it’s ridiculous.” He rubbed his nose and looked down at his feet, and she was reminded of the little boy she had known in grammar school. 

“I won’t, I promise, it’s just that you’ve been acting strangely ever since your birthday.”

John looked up at Molly and knew he was going to have to tell her about the letter that had been driving him mad for the last few weeks.

“After I left the pub that night, I found a letter.”

“A letter.” She narrowed her eyes at him. 

“A love letter.”

“A love letter.”

“Molly.”

“Show me.”

John opened the protective plastic envelope he had put the letter into for safekeeping and handed it to her.

“I’ve already looked for latent prints, no luck there, but there’s a smudge of oil paint on the edge of the top left corner, just a trace of colour, and maybe a spot of hair gel. I know where the paper comes from but the shop where it was purchased went out of business ten years ago, the company that made the paper doesn’t even exist any longer, the records are gone; I know what type pen was used to write it, and the brand of ink, but I don’t know who these two people are. I don’t even know if it matters. I…”

Molly read the letter silently to herself. “You are searching for the person who wrote this.”

John blushed, but he nodded. “I don’t think ‘Paul’ wrote this.”

“You think someone wrote it for him? Bit of Cyrano?” She grinned at him as she carefully handed it back to him.

“I dunno - the writing is just too fluid, too perfect. Do you know what I mean? If ‘Paul’ had written this, there would have been places where it was obvious he stopped and thought about it, it’s just too perfect. I mean, there should be a smudge, maybe a place where the ink blobs, a misspelling? It’s what you would want someone to write for you, if you couldn’t do it yourself. But, the person who wrote this, he has loved someone, knows what it means to love someone, and I need to meet him, Molly.”

Molly watched as he began to pack up, then shook her head. “This is important to you.”

John looked up and nodded. “I know it’s crazy. But it’s almost as if -”

“You were meant to find this?”

He shrugged and sighed. “You know I don’t believe in, I don’t know, the whole ‘things happen for a reason’ crap. But, it, it was just there on the sidewalk, like the wind had blown it? I picked it up right before it started to pour. It obviously meant something to Colin, he folded it so it would fit in his wallet or pocket. It’s heavy, handmade paper, not easy to fold, but he wanted it with him, at all times. He kept unfolding it, to read it, then he would fold it again and put it away, he had it for maybe two months, I’m guessing he read it several times a day the first week - if it had been cheaper paper, there would be holes along the creases, maybe some fading of ink, but the person who wrote this, they used a fountain pen, India ink. This was meant to be a treasure, it was created, Molly. By a master. A craftsman. And I need - I need to meet him, Molly. Can you help me? Please?”

 

1.04.86

M-

My mum is gone. She left the day after Christmas. Left cocoa and cookies on the table and a note for me. Who does that, Mol? Who just leaves? I’d never do that to anyone, especially to my kid, but then I don’t have to worry about that, do I?

-J

 

3.31.1988

Molly -

I’m a big fat liar. How I’d never leave anyone. Well, I left home today. Left Harry. I know, I couldn’t take her to Oxford with me anyway, but, I’m not going to Oxford, I joined up. I know, I promised you. I’m an arse. I hope you don’t hate me, but I can’t study anymore. I worked so hard the last three years, for what? To prove something to someone who isn’t even here. To try to get my Da to care? I dunno, honestly. I just need to get out of here, out of London, out of England. If there was a way to leave the planet, go to the moon or something, I’d do that. I’m sorry, Mol. Forgive me?

-J

 

3.31.1989

J-

Happy Birthday, wherever you are, hoping you get this. I’m not angry with you. Though I wish I had a chance to try to talk you out of the choice you made, but I could tell you were ready to leave. You were already gone, even though you were still here. I miss you. Call me when you get a chance? Oxford is beautiful, it’s spring, and everything is so green and… there are so many hot guys here, what the hell are you doing, John Watson? You moron. There. Rant over. Just come home in one piece, please?

-M

 

7.12.1992

Happy Birthday, Molly. I’m sorry I missed it, I was supposed to get home two days ago. I wanted to surprise you. But, I volunteered for one of those ‘piece of cake’ missions, and got myself shot. It’s not serious, well, serious enough that I’m stuck in a cast for a few months. Yeah, I know, you told me not to be an idiot, but you know me. I’ll be ‘shipped’ home soon, sounds like I’ll be at Bart’s for rehab. Maybe you can come visit me? I know you are busy - so how was your birthday?

-J

 

Molly rolled her eyes at him and nodded. “What do you need help with?”

John looked up at her under his lashes and smiled. “Meet me at my flat after work, I’ll have beer and take-away, it’s going to take some time, to explain everything?”

“Throw in a Dairy Milk, and it’s a deal.”

John packed up his bag and kissed her cheek. “Deal. You’re the best, Mol.”

“I know, don’t you forget it. I’ll be there at 7. Don’t be late. You know how Harry gets, she wants to chat, find out how single I still am, rub it in how happy she is…”

“I promise, Mol. Thanks. I need to go home and shower, maybe get a nap…”

Molly crossed her arms at him and he laughed. “You know me too well, sweet. How did I get so lucky? See you at 7. Love you.”

She sighed and shook her head as she watched him leave the lab, the slight limp still made her catch her breath. “Love you, too. Be careful out there.”

John turned back and met her gaze, knowing all too well what she was thinking. “I will. Promise.” Then he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not too much angst... just a tiny bit.

“Think of the trees and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season, how without grief (it seems) they can let go...Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long...Let it go.”  
― May Sarton

 

January 29, 2009 

 

Colin -

I am hesitant to put pen to paper, but I see no other way how to tell you, that my day truly only begins when you knock lightly at my office door each morning, push it open just enough, and lean in just far enough to look me over and nod a greeting to me, before slipping away to your own office. 

There is something about being seen. By you.

By you, alone, that allows me to breathe better. 

I have never been in love before, but, I have an idea that this must be what this is. Terrible sentence. I know, but I have the feeling that my very difficulty in finding the right words, the correct syntax, must tell you something of my feelings for you. 

Please, if you have any understanding of what I am trying to communicate to you, if you have any compassion for me. Damn it, Col! You must know, you must have sensed it, by now, all this time. Please, give me some hint, an idea, of your own thoughts. No, actually, I don't want your thoughts. No, if thoughts are all you have to offer me, kindly keep them to yourself. If you have feelings for me, at all, you know where to find me.

Yours, always,  
Paul

 

"Too much?" Sherlock asked as he paced nervously in front of Donovan.

She read it again and shook her head as she laid it on the coffee table. "No. It's perfect. Simple, sweet, in its way, just awkward enough. If Paul could have written it, I imagine he would have written something close." She looked up at him and searched his eyes. "Took you -"

"Fifteen minutes. One go. After I paced for two hours, took a hot shower, walked Vi, then fed her, hummed and growled at my painting without picking up a brush for another three, and read half a novel. Can't remember which one. Doesn't matter. Then I sat down, and thought about what I would have written to -"

"You can say his name, sweetie."

"What I would have written to Trev, if we had ever been in similar circumstances. I know you think I need to move on, should have gotten on with things, years ago. Most rational, logical beings would have by now. I'm not the only one. You and -"

"Julian."

"Julian. Right. You broke up with him. Right before you came over here yesterday to tell me about the client. Can you tell me, why?"

"Been together too long." She crossed her arms in front of her and Sherlock sighed, then stomped on the coffee table and dropped into the couch next to her, pulling her into his arms.

"A year. It was a year, Sal. A whole bloody year. It's the longest you've been with anyone in fifteen years." He kissed her hair and whispered gently, "do you ever wonder why that is, why you don't let them stay too long?"

She sniffed and pressed her face against his chest. "You know damn well why that is."

"Tell me, Sal."

"I never want it to hurt like that again, to lose someone I loved who meant that much to me, so, I choose not to make that mistake. He - Julian - he finally told me he loved me."

"The bastard." Sherlock smiled cautiously at her.

She pulled away from him and glowered back. "You never leave this flat, except to walk Vi, if you didn’t have her, you’d never walk outside. No one can find you here, no one can get close enough, to know you, because you are surrounded by him here. You think you are safe, and maybe for you, safety is enough, living with his memory is enough. But is it a life?"

"My life ended when his did, Sal."

"But, it didn't, Sherlock. You are here, you are still here, breathing, most certainly alive. The person who can write this letter, even for someone else, damn it, Sherlock, this is your heart. This is your voice, the person who can write this is deserving of being loved."

"You love me."

"It can't be enough."

"Sal. You are so much stronger than I am, you always were. I don't know Julian, because as usual, you know better than to bring your beau over here, but the fact that you were with him for a year tells me something. But you were looking for an excuse to run and he gave it to you, without realising it. Go run after him, if he means anything at all to you. If he means nothing, let him go, don't mourn him, as you are."

"Am not."

"Are so."

"Not." She smirked at him, and groaned, then leaned back against him and closed her eyes.

"So. So what are we going to do, Sally Donovan?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that I am going to mail this letter off, and then I am going to order a lorry-full of Thai and that you are going to eat some and just maybe we’ll put on one of those stupid rom-coms that always make you cry."

“I had a cold. I wasn’t crying… okay, I was crying, but I’m allowed to cry when Harry realises he’s been an idiot, doesn’t everyone cry at that part? If they don’t, they are heartless or morons, probably both.”

She laughed and ruffled her hair, then managed to get up from the couch. “Come on, you, let’s get it mailed before you decide to rip it up and start over.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but rose slowly to his feet, picked up the letter from the coffee table, carried to his desk, slid it carefully into an envelope, sealed it, addressed and stamped it, then bowed in Donovan's direction as he laid it in her hands. "Hurry back, I'm starving."

"Liar." She slipped into her boots and kissed his cheek before she dashed down the seventeen steps and into the grey afternoon. She dropped the letter into the postal box, looked up to the skies and shook her head. "I don't really believe in anything, Trev, let alone heaven or ghosts, but, if anyone could do something for him, it would be you. Just - please?"

 

4.16.2009

Molly knocked on the door, and at John’s bellowed, “enter, just getting the plates out,” she walked into the flat, and stopped short. Usually it was as neat as a pin, from his years in the military she supposed, but tonight, the walls were covered in photos, invoices, test results, scraps of paper, post-its, and a copy of the letter in the middle of everything, red string seemed to connect the dots to -

“Hey.” He watched her for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets and waited. 

“You weren’t kidding.”

He shook his head at her. “It’s like an itch - no it’s worse than that, it’s become an earworm, a song I loved, and it won’t go away now, until I know. I haven’t ever felt like this before, Mol, and I don’t know if it’s the PTSD rearing its ugly head finally, or something to do with my mum, according to Freud, everything has to do with our mothers, but I don’t think so. I should be able to figure out who wrote this, and it’s -”

Molly shook her head and moved across the room, then held out her arms to him. He leaned into her and let out a breath. “You are the only one I’ve told. I haven’t even told Greg. He’d think I was losing it. Make me talk to the departmental shrink or some rot. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. A bit obsessed maybe, but not certifiable, yet.”

John chuckled then pulled away from her. “Dinner first?”

“Definitely, then you can tell me what all that mess means.”

 

“Problem is, I don’t have a clue what that mess means. I think if I can determine what colour is on the edge of the note without destroying it, that will tell me enough. It’s oil paint, he’s an artist, too. And then there’s the spot that could be hair gel, again it’s just on the edge, but it’s microscopic. There are so many layers of fingerprints - guessing mostly Colin’s, so I can’t get anything from that… I don’t have the envelope, so no postmark to tell me where it was mailed from…” He stopped as he saw that Molly was grinning at him. “What?”

“You know you’ve done everything you can do without damaging it.”

John shrugged and picked up his fork again, then put it down.

“I haven’t ever seen you this excited about a case before.”

“It isn’t a case…”

“Yes, it is. You are treating it as a case. A missing person’s case. You’ve spent the last couple of weeks doing everything you can to investigate it, you are one of the best forensic people I know, mostly because you don’t get attached, you don’t let things get to you, you treat evidence strictly as evidence. You don’t get 'involved'.”

“Of course I don’t. That might skew my results, and what good would that do -”

“What was your first reaction to the letter when you read it?”

John blinked at her then looked away, and picked up his untouched bottle of lager.

“You wondered if you had ever made anyone feel that way. And then you wondered if you had ever felt that strongly about anything, and then you froze, and went into ‘forensic man’ mode. You turned it into a document to be analyzed, you tried to forget the words, what they meant, what the creases on it meant. But the words followed you. They wouldn’t let you be, so you stopped sleeping. You want to know what I think? Here it is. Let it go. Maybe one day, when you least expect it, you’ll figure it out, but for now?”

John took a sip from his bottle and nodded.

“For now, let me help you take all that down, then you will put the letter in a drawer and lock it away, and I will tuck you into bed, then I will clean up the dishes and -”

“Will you stay?”

Molly reached for his hand and nodded. “Of course, I’ll stay. And for the record? I think you have felt that way, I know you have, when your mum left, when you decided to join the military instead of go to Oxford, when Ang -”

“Don’t, Mol, please?”

“When Angie died, you stayed strong for Greg and Robbie, because that’s what they needed. You always felt responsible -”

“I was.”

“You weren’t. She got cancer, the worst kind you can get, you know that even if she had somehow realised it earlier with everything going on, it would’ve been a miracle that she lived as long as she did, and I think she hung on until she knew you two were okay. She needed to know the two of you would get through it.”

“Molly -”

“You have one of the biggest and best hearts I’ve ever known, John. You’ve always been afraid to let people in. I know. You can’t get hurt if you don’t let people close to you. I don’t count, yer stuck with me.”

John rolled his eyes and focused on finishing his beer.

“You know what my gut tells me?”

He shook his head at her and shrugged.

“My gut tells me, when you meet this guy, you’ll know it, from the moment you lay eyes on him, and you won’t ever be the same. And you know my gut is never wrong.”

“Yer a fortune teller now, hmm, Mol?”

“I know what I know, John Watson. I know what I know. Now, let’s get that mess off the wall, hmm?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade... more angst, deals with the death of Greg's wife, and what happened to him in Afghanistan.

“No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”  
― John Donne

 

1.29.1994

“We gotta clear the - sorry, what’s your name?”

“Will - Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.” He was still sitting by the side of the road, staring at his hands, as if he expected them to be covered in blood.

“Uhm, Sherlock, you - your friend, Ms. Donovan, I got her a taxi over to Speedy’s - they seem to know her there.”

“Will you be able to determine who did it? Who hit him, who killed Trev?”

DC Lestrade sat down next to him and removed his hat, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, I dunno. Visibility… and the witnesses, sorry, hell, this is my first day.”

“Congratulations, DC -”

“Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade. No one ever remembers my first name.”

“DC Gregory Lestrade, I will remember. Thank you for your honesty. I own, we, Trev and I own - well it’s just me now, I suppose, Speedy’s.”

“But -”

“I’m older than I look. I just turned twenty-one this month. When you get done here, stop by for a pint, just ask for Ms. Hudson and tell her I told you your first two are on the house. I’m in your way. Thanks again, Gregory -”

“Call me Greg.”

“Greg. Very well.” Lestrade watched as he got to his feet and somehow made it to a taxi. He watched as Sherlock looked out the window and realised he had never seen anyone really mourn until now, even though he hadn’t shed a single tear.

 

1.29.1995

“Mr. Holmes, it’s DC Lestrade. Not sure if you remember me from the accident last year. I just wanted you to know I’m still trying to discover who killed your boyfriend. I’m not giving up.”

 

2.5.1997

“Mr. Holmes. I’m sorry I missed your call. I was on my honeymoon. It’s not an excuse, I should have made an attempt to contact you. I’ve been recently promoted to sergeant, but I’m still keeping an eye out for any new witnesses. I know finding out who killed Mr. Trevor won’t bring him back, but I think it would bring you a bit of closure. Again, I’m sorry.”

 

1.29.2007

“Ah, DS Lestrade?” Sherlock acknowledged his presence without looking at him, then lifted his eyes from the canvas he was working on. “I am sorry for your loss, Greg.”

“Hmm?” 

“Your wife, it was a few months ago now? I saw the obituary in the Times. It was well done, I could have done a bit better, but it was obvious she was loved, and is missed.” He turned his interest back to the canvas on his easel and scowled at it, before laying the brush on it again.

“Yeah. Thanks. I’m actually a DI now.”

Sherlock turned and looked him over, and rolled his eyes. “Of course, I should have seen it. I assume you’ve come to tell me that there is no news on the hit and run.”

“Yeah. I also just needed a quiet place to sit for a moment, if you don’t mind?”

Sherlock shrugged and offered him the couch. “You have a son. Robert, I believe?”

Greg sank down gratefully into the cushions and pulled his coat tighter around him. “Robbie. They get all formal in those obituaries, it was Angie’s mum who organised it, I wasn’t in any shape to think about things like that.” He went silent, then studied the new scuff mark on his new shoes. “Damn.”

“It’s not just your wife’s death, or your errand.”

“Nope.” Greg rubbed his face and looked up to find Sherlock studying him closely. It was hard to believe they were nearly the same age. Sherlock’s hair was dark, and yet there was something in his face, and in the way his eyes took everything in that made him seem older than his thirty-four years. “It was three years ago today, a mate and I were serving in Afghanistan, we were caught in a sandstorm, and then captured. Held captive for six months until they found us. We had been listed as MIA, they had nearly given us up for dead. My son was born the same day we were taken. I didn’t see him until he was eight months old. I couldn’t hold him until he was a year old. I was a stranger to my son, and my wife. Bloody hell. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Yes, you do.” Sherlock put the paintbrush he had been holding into a jar of solvent and went into the kitchen, returning with a bottle and two tumblers. He poured out two doubles, and handed one to the newly made DI. “You and I share a tragedy. A life cut short. I lost Trev in a split second. If he had waited just a moment longer to cross the street, he may still be here, today. You lost your wife over months, you watched her fade away slowly. Both deaths are tragic, though I’m not sure you don’t wish her death had been easier on you both. There have been times when you wished to trade places with me.” He lifted the tumbler to his lips and tossed the scotch back in one gulp. He shivered, then put the glass down. “I assure you. You were fortunate to have the time you had with her. You got to say a proper goodbye. You were listed as her grieving spouse in a published obituary. I was given no such respect. Luckily Trev had written down what his wishes were in the unlikely event of his death. We laughed about it at the time, but fortunately for me he even went to the trouble of hiring a lawyer, and making sure the family who no longer spoke to or of him knew that his remains were none of their business. He didn’t want me wasting time grieving at a gravestone, so he asked to have his remains cremated and scattered over the playground where we met as children. Your mother-in-law had her daughter buried, you have a place where you can visit her, yes?”

Greg nodded and sipped slowly at his drink.

“Trev didn’t know I’d have been better off if I’d had a place out in the world where I could have visited him. I might have… doesn’t matter, now.” Sherlock shrugged, and poured out a second drink for himself. “I usually only have one drink today, but it seems rude to have you drink alone. I hope you know I appreciate the time that you have invested in trying to solve Trev’s case. That means he isn’t forgotten. So, thank you for that. You blame yourself for your wife’s cancer. You think if you hadn’t been away at war, hadn't been captured and seriously injured, she wouldn’t have become ill. Or at least they would have caught it earlier? I recall that she had been a nurse?”

Greg drew in a sharp breath, then tossed back the remains of his drink and shoved his glass closer to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and poured him out another double. “You do know, it wasn’t your fault. It would be easier if you could blame someone instead of bad luck or a defective gene, whatever it was. You think if you had been well when she became sick, you could have done more for her. For a moment, think what her last months would have been like if you never made it home. If she didn’t know you were alive - sorry. I don’t talk to many people, Donovan always tells me I lack a filter. Apologies. I’m assuming someone is with your son tonight?”

“Yes. He’s with his grandmother. She picked him up this morning. She had a party for him, he’s three now. He doesn’t really know me yet, has forgotten his mum.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Kids are smarter than we give them credit for. Listen. I’m going to work on my painting, but that couch is comfortable, and I’ll leave that bottle on the table. Don’t mind me if I start talking to myself - again, I’m sorry if I overstepped. It’s my job to see the things that no one wants to feel or speak aloud, it’s how I make my living.” He rolled his eyes as Lestrade snorted in response. “Okay, yes. I don’t really need the money, but it keeps my mind from going stagnant, and sometimes people - people are one of the greatest puzzles ever created. Please, stay if you wish, if you leave, just be careful out there, take a cab, wouldn’t do for a new DI to be arrested for driving under the influence.”

Greg chuckled in spite of himself and nodded. “Ta, very much, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll see if there’s a match on your telly?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Help yourself, the bathroom is down the hall, should you need it.”

Hours later, Sherlock raised his head as he heard the white noise of the station going off for the night. He once again dropped the brush into the cleaning solution, and went over to the couch, and considered the man who was fast asleep for a long moment, before covering him with the old crazy quilt that was fraying at the edges. “Rest well, Greg.” He turned away and went back to glaring at the sketch of the painting that he’d spent the last two days on, then looked down at Vi. “Really? Alright, old girl, just make it fast tonight, hmm? No sojourns, it’s started to snow again.”

 

1.30.2007

Sherlock- 

Thank you for letting me crash on your couch, I hadn’t really slept in a couple of weeks. You were right, all of it. I appreciate you having the courage to say it. Everyone else walks on eggshells around me, they are afraid to say the wrong thing, so they don’t say anything, and they expect me to keep up a ‘brave face’ for Robbie. Thank you for being human, and I do know how lucky I was to have her as long as I did. I just forget that sometimes. I owe you for that and for the bottle.

-Greg

 

1.30.2007

“Morning, Cap.” 

“Doc.”

“Robbie had a good day yesterday?”

“Yep, Spoiled sweet as always, so I hear.”

“Great. You know, someday, it will get easier.” John regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

“Yeah? Let me know when that happens, Doc.” He rubbed his face and shrugged at his friend. “Sorry, not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault, and sometimes I wish there was someone I could blame. Listen, Robbie’s at his Nana’s til the weekend, you want to grab dinner tonight, or something?”

“Sure, Cap.”

“I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”

“Got it. I am sorry, Cap.”

“Yeah, me too, Doc, me too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More John and Molly...

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”  
― C.S. Lewis

 

4.17.2009

John had been asleep for a couple of hours when he bolted upright in bed, Molly put down the book she was reading and waited. After she had made sure he had fallen asleep, she had slipped out of bed, made herself a cup of tea and found one of the few novels that John kept on his bookshelf, probably something she had left over here years ago, and read as he slept. Years ago, she had learned not to try to touch him when he was having a nightmare.

 

12.25.2005

“No!”

“John?” Molly muted the movie they had been watching, and realised he had fallen asleep next to her on the couch. She reached out to touch him and drew back wide-eyed as he sat up then glared at her, not seeing her, but someone he obviously hated. “Shit. John. It’s me, Mol, it’s Molly, John. You’re at home, in your flat. You’re in London. It’s Christmas, John. You’re safe.”

“Liar!” He screeched at her, and she moved from the couch as quickly as she could and found a corner of the flat that was out of his line of sight. 

“John. Sweetie. You know I wouldn’t lie to you, I haven’t ever lied to you, have I?”

“You’re not Molly. Molly’s hair is longer. Redder. She would never wear those clothes. What have you done with her?” John rubbed his eyes, then tried to get up, but his knee went out, and he collapsed back on the couch, fully asleep again. She never told him of the episode, but from then on, knew to be on guard when she had to find a way to make him sleep on those nights when he didn’t want to, but needed to.

 

4.17.2009

“Cap! Talk to me, please?”

Molly watched as he fought an enemy only he could see, and she wondered when the past was ever going to leave him alone. He had never told her what he and Greg had been through when they were captured, and the months following when they were missing presumed lost during a sandstorm, but she knew from the injuries she had helped treat once he was out of hospital that he was lucky to be alive. He paused in his thrashing, closed his eyes tightly then slowly opened them again. “Mol?”

“Yeah, John, I’m here.”

He turned to find her sitting in the chair, and he ran his fingers through his hair, then cleared his throat. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She shook her head and moved to sit next to him on the bed. “No, sweetie.”

“Have I ever? I mean, I’m sure this isn’t the first time, tell me I’ve never hurt you?” 

She shook her head and stretched out next to him, and waited for him to curl up next to her. “Never.” She reached for him and he laid his head against her chest and closed his eyes as she gently rubbed his back. “You would never hurt me, John.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can, because I know you.”

John let out a shuddering breath and she felt tears begin to dampen her shirt. In all the years they had known each other she had never seen him cry, whether it was in sheer exhaustion, or from loneliness, she wasn’t sure, but suddenly she knew, she felt in her gut that he needed to find the man who had written the letter more than he had ever needed anything or anyone else in his life. She pressed her cheek to his hair and whispered, “we will find him, sweetie, I promise. Just rest, John. We will find him, but you need to sleep. I won’t leave you, I promise.” She felt him reach for her hand and their fingers threaded together as they had the first time she had seen him in hospital after he had returned home.

 

8.10.2004

“Mol?” John’s voice was barely a whisper as she sat down in the chair next to his bed.

“Yeah, sweetie, I’m here.”

“Sorry I missed your birthday again.”

She muttered, “idiot,” under her breath then took the hand that reached out for her, and held it carefully, then gently threaded their fingers together, as they always had when one of them, or both of them needed to be comforted. At that moment, she wasn’t sure who needed it more.

“I’m here, Molly.”

“I know.” She lifted her head and saw him look at her for the first time in over a year, then felt hot tears stream down her face. “I didn’t think - I thought - I never thought I’d see you again.”

He rolled his eyes at her, then lifted their hands slowly and kissed her knuckles, then mumbled out, “I told you I was coming back, Mol. I know I don’t have a great track record -” He coughed and closed his eyes, then looked at her again. “I won’t miss another birthday, I promise. You’ll stay, please?”

She nodded and watched as he fell asleep, their fingers still entwined.

 

4.17.2009

“Mornin’.” Molly smiled gently at him as she poured him a cup of tea and added the required two splashes of milk.

He nodded at her and took the mug, wrapping his hands around it, and stared into it for a moment before taking a sip. “Sorry about last night.”

Molly shook her head. “I want to test the paint. I know it will mean taking a piece of the letter, but I will try to take the smallest sample I can, it might be impossible to -”

“Mol.”

“John. You’re right. You need to find him. I know how you feel about my gut feelings…”

“No, I trust you. It’s just -”

“Just?”

“I’m getting too old for - I dunno, fairy tales, happy endings? I don’t - what if, what happens if I do find him and he hates me on sight, or worse…”

“Worse?”

John finally lifted his eyes from his tea and shrugged. “What if he likes me, I mean, really likes me. I’ve never - never had anything last longer than two years and that was only because he liked the flat and saw me so rarely -”

“Stop. You’re asking me for advice?” Molly snorted and grinned at him as he started to chuckle, then stopped and bit his lip.

“I’m serious, Molly.”

“No, I know you are. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, hmmm? Now, drink your tea, we both have to be at work soon, but after my shift, I will test that paint for you, and we will find your mystery man.”

 

7.5.2009

Molly opened the door to find John hiding behind a ridiculously giant bouquet of bright yellow daisies. “Happy Birthday!”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“7, I think?”

“On a Saturday morning. Do I smell -”

He handed her a bag and she opened it and let out a sigh. “You’re forgiven. Get in here. Where on earth did you find all of those so early?” She took the flowers from him and buried her nose in them. “They actually smell like flowers.” She looked into his face and grinned. “You know what colour it is.”

He nodded. “It’s Red Gold Lake, Old Holland Oil Paint… I was right, Molly. He’s an artist. I’m, we’re getting closer. Now. It’s your birthday, what do you want to do today?”

She blinked at him and glanced up into his eyes. “Drink lots coffee and eat these chocolate croissants, then…” She stopped and rolled her eyes. “Tell me you started looking into who has purchased -”

He took the flowers from her, then walked into the kitchen to find a proper vase for them. “Mol. I’ve missed enough of your birthdays, today, I want to do nothing but what you want to do.”

“John. It’s been months.”

“Molly, let me do this for you today, please? It’s one day, your day, and it’s beautiful outside. We don’t want to spend it digging through records. We can do that whenever.” He arranged the flowers and got out the coffee. “I’m making coffee now. We will eat the croissants, drink the coffee -”

“John?”

“Mol. Remember when you came over that night? When we took everything down, and you told me to let it go, I would find him when it was time, when it was supposed to happen? We’ve done everything, we know he’s an artist and a writer, and he’s probably 70 and can’t see past his nose, is shorter than me and bald.”

Molly giggled, then walked over to him and kissed his forehead, and hugged him tightly. “Sorry. After breakfast, lets go to the park?”

“Right. Yeah, the park. Haven’t been in years. Good choice. Now - go get cleaned up, and I’ll make some eggs to go with it? Make a feast of it?”

Molly kissed his cheek and squeezed him tightly once more before letting him go. “I’m so glad you are here, John.”

He glanced at her and nodded. “Yeah, me too, Mol, me too.” He cleared his throat then turned towards the fridge. “Oooh, sausage too?”

She watched him for a moment in silence then laughed. “Yeah, sausage too, please? Back in a flash.”

 

“I can’t believe you ate all of that.” John laughed as they collapsed on the park bench an hour later.

“It was your fault, you cooked.” Molly sighed, then leaned into his shoulder and closed her eyes.

John sat quietly next to her and watched as a tall, thin man in a long coat and scarf, dressed for winter, not this bright, sunny July afternoon, walking an elderly pug, passed by them. He closed his eyes and considered all the reasons people dress the way they do. He opened his eyes again to see the man turn and nod at him. He shivered, but nodded back before the man continued on. What the hell was that? He shook his head, then draped his arm around Molly’s shoulder and held her while she napped off breakfast.

“What’s up?” Molly asked as they were sitting on the couch watching crap telly. “You’ve been quiet all day. Spill it. Now.”

“It’s - probably nothing. But when we were in the park, on the bench, a man walking a dog passed by us. He was wearing a long coat, bright blue scarf, and he still looked cold. On one of the hottest days we’ve had in weeks. I closed my eyes for a second, then opened them again, and he had turned back and he nodded at me. It was the oddest feeling Molly, it was as if he knew me, or I knew him, something. I didn’t get a long look at him, but from what I could tell - “

“Not 70, blind, bald and short, hmmm?” She asked with a smile, then turned her focus back to the television.

He shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “mid thirties, dark curls, full lips, bright green eyes - eyes that were older than the rest of him. Never seen anything like him. Probably never will again…”

 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

“You okay?”

He looked up at Donovan who seemed to be waiting for him to do something. “Oh, right.” He looked down at the Scrabble tiles and realised it had been his turn for ten minutes. “Sorry.”

“Something happen today?”

He picked up a tile and sighed. “I walked Vi to the park this morning.”

Sally drew in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly. “You haven’t been to the park since -”

“I know. I still don’t know why I did it, but there was a man sitting on a bench with a girlfriend. Not a ‘girlfriend’ girlfriend. Just a friend. Don’t know why I know, body language? He saw me, then closed his eyes, and when he had opened them again, I turned and nodded at him, he stared at me for a second, then nodded back. As if…”

“As if - what?”

“As if he knew me. Don’t know. Damn. All I have are vowels.” He scowled at the board then looked up at Donovan’s face. “I don’t know, Donovan. Doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again. There. An and at on a double word score a whole eight points. Your go.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Trev, a bit of Martha, and bumping into a bit of canon...

“Behind all art is an element of desire...Love of life, of existence, love of another human being, love of human beings is in some way behind all art — even the most angry, even the darkest, even the most grief-stricken, and even the most embittered art has that element somewhere behind it. Because how could you be so despairing, so embittered, if you had not had something you loved that you lost?”  
― Adrienne Rich

 

9.22.2009

 

Sherlock glared at the canvas, and wondered again what had possessed him to walk through the park that day over two months ago. One glimpse of the man sitting on the bench, he still wasn’t sure what it was about him that made him pause and turn back and nod at him, but he had, and the nod had been returned. He kept thinking about the flash of what he could have sworn was recognition, but he knew he had never seen him before. He would have remembered him, and yet, he wasn’t sure precisely what it was that was so remarkable about him that he had to paint him; fair, strong jawline, smallish stature, as far as he could judge, he was shorter than average, but well proportioned, his eyes. It was his eyes. Blue, he thought, but so dark, and he had turned back to get one more look, to check, and he saw the tiny flecks of gold flash at him. That was why he had nodded. There was something - 

“Damn it!” The colour still wasn’t right, not indigo - it was too cold, the blue had been warm, somehow.

“Will.”

“Nope.”

“You’re overthinking it. You never used to think when you painted me.”

“Course not. I know you - knew you, better than I know myself. Why are you here?”

“You know.”

Sherlock growled as he calmed down enough to drop the brush into the jar, then ran his hands through his hair and fell into his chair.

“Got some paint in your hair, love, and a smudge on your nose, I always wondered how you managed to get paint in the oddest of places.” Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice and he closed his eyes, as he tried to conjure him up in his head, but he was becoming too faded. He sighed and pulled his knees up to his chin. “Not today, Trev.”

“You know why I’m here.” 

“Why did I walk through the park that day? I haven’t been there in years, Trev, not since we scattered your ashes, and yet, the day I chose to take Vi there -”

“I think you know why.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When you were alive, you were always so clear, so you knew you weren’t misunderstood, more than anything, you hated when people didn’t understand, and now, when I need an answer, you want to be as clear as mud.”

“You wanted to see if you could do it. You needed to know if you were strong enough. You are, love. You always were. Stronger than anyone I ever knew. If it had been you -”

“Don’t.”

“You always knew, Will. I always needed you more than you needed me.”

“That isn’t true. You always spoke your mind, said what you wanted, no matter the cost, people listened to you, always wanted to be around you because you were fearless, so fearless, Trev -”

“The cost was too high some days, you remember -”

“I never minded, Trev,” Sherlock whispered as he got to his feet and walked over to the window.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you ask me before?” Sherlock pressed his forehead against the window and closed his eyes. “Why a letter? You never wrote letters. What was it you always said, ‘why waste part of a tree when a word is easily spoken and forgotten, won’t take up space?’ Did you honestly think I’d turn you down, if you had asked me?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“One day, sooner or later, you would have become tired of me, you would have eventually grown weary of falling down that rabbit hole after me -”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head.

“I put it in a letter, because every time I wanted to get down on one knee and ask you, I never seemed to find the right moment, I was always studying, always too busy talking about something or other, I can’t even remember now, everything seemed so important back then; or you were working on a painting and the light would catch you just right and I couldn’t speak. Those were the times when I would take the brush from your hand and take you to bed, and just hold you, just hold all that brilliance in my arms and I couldn’t believe that you were mine, you would kiss me and tell me you loved me, and I should have been able to ask you then. I never intended to trap you here, Will.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I was selfish. I was always selfish when it came to you, except Donovan. She knew, she loved both of us enough, accepted us as we were, and she knew we loved her in the same way. You both should have moved on, Will. Yes, I know she did, technically. She moved down the street, but she spends more time here than she ever does at her own flat - that’s on me. I wanted to have a long, amazing life with you, to see what you would become, grow old with you, that’s why I bought that ring, I wanted to see your eyes light up when I slid it on your finger that night. Instead, you’ve been married to a ghost for the last fifteen years. I saw the light leave your eyes when you knew I was dying, and I couldn’t stop it from happening. I’m so sorry, Will. I should have been braver, you always should have known -”

“I did, I always knew, Trev,” Sherlock whispered. He looked down at the ring that he had put on his own finger over fifteen years ago and felt a single tear slide down his cheek. “I thought we had more time. If I had known, I would have asked you, should have asked you. We were so young, Trev. I never would have left you, not ever. You must know that.”

“I do.”

Sherlock rubbed the tear from his face, then walked over to the desk and opened the drawer that still held the slightly damaged envelope that he had felt in Trev's pocket, as he had tried to get him to breathe again that night. He picked up the envelope and slid the ring back inside, replaced it back in the drawer and locked it. Then he walked back over to the easel and picked up his brush, and began to paint once more.

 

10.14.2009

Sir Jeffery Patterson, dead at 43, in an apparent suicide... details and obit, page 4…

 

“Is that him?” Donovan asked quietly.

Sherlock looked up from the paper and raised an eyebrow. “Him who?”

“The man at the park you told me about?”

He shrugged, then nodded. “Best I can do, if I’d had a few more minutes, perhaps I would have captured him better, but I seem to recall that most people don’t like being stared at by complete strangers.”

Donovan smiled at him. “He has kind eyes.”

“Hmmm?”

“You heard me. What is it that has you so interested in the newspaper?”

“Obituary.”

She rolled her eyes at him and waited for him to continue. “Patterson. Came from old money, had a wife, children, and a lovely mistress, just odd. Apparent suicide. Curious.”

“Why curious?”

“He was found in a place where he had never been before, according to his family. Overdose. Man like that, who seemed to have everything, perhaps too much of everything - ah. Never mind.” He tossed the paper aside and moved to stand in front of the nearly finished painting, and narrowed his eyes at it. “You think his eyes are kind?”

“You saw something in them.”

Sherlock nodded. “Can’t quite get them right, at first I thought it was the colour, but it’s not that, he seemed to understand something, he saw something when he looked at me, something that most people don’t understand - and I can’t -”

“Your ring.”

“Was wondering when you were going to ask.”

“It’s not my business. Thought maybe you had it cleaned, but you would have asked me to take it -”

“Do you ever talk to him?” Sherlock asked her quietly without taking his eyes from the painting.

“Of course.”

“Does he, hmm… this might sound a bit -”

“Answer?”

Sherlock nodded.

“There are times when I feel him around me, he’s impatient, or annoyed, not with me necessarily, but it’s usually after I’ve broken up with someone. After Julian. When I got home from being over here, he was sitting at the end of my bed, you know how he used to, cross legged, and he wanted to know what was wrong with me. No, his exact words were, ‘what the fuck, Donovan?’”

“Sounds like him.” Sherlock snorted, then turned and looked at her. “Will you, would you like to go have dinner with me somewhere? Unless you have plans, I mean -”

Donovan nodded. “I’d love to, any reason in particular?”

“No. I just think it’s time -”

“How about we just go downstairs to Speedy’s, in case -”

“Yeah, good idea. Let me just change, and we can go down?”

“Paint in your hair, and your fingers - doesn’t matter. Go get changed, before you change your mind, hmm?”

Sherlock grinned at her, then kissed her forehead and strode off to his bedroom.

 

11.27.2009

"Local teen, Jimmy Browne, commits suicide... details to come, page 3…”

“Did you see this, Martha?” Sherlock dropped the paper on the bar, and shook his head. “Another one.”

“Another -?”

“ ‘Suicide.’ A kid kills himself miles away from his home and school, from anywhere he’s ever known to be, supposedly from an overdose of some drug. They won’t say what it was, but concede it was the same drug that killed Patterson, over a month ago…”

“Sherlock, since when did you start caring about police -” She picked up the paper and began to read the article, then put it down again and grinned at him. “Your friend, Lestrade, it’s one of his cases.”

He shook his head, then shrugged. “I don’t know that he would consider me a friend, more of an annoyance, probably. I remind him of his only failure, I’ve looked up his record, sometimes it takes him a while, but he always works it out somehow…”

“Can I get you a sandwich before we open? A pint?”

“No, I’m fine, Martha. Actually…” His eyes fluttered shut as he sniffed at the air. “Is that an apple crisp I smell back in the kitchen?”

She nodded at him. “I remembered how much you and Trev loved it. Sorry. I know how hard it must be -” She stopped and suddenly recalled the first day she walked into Speedy’s.

“Will. This is insane! What do we know about owning a pub?”

“Nothing. It will be fun, Trev, an adventure. I thought -”

“Excuse me?”

Will had turned at her voice and his jaw had dropped. “Martha -”

“Hudson.”

“But, weren’t you? You were Olivia in 1970, Titania, in ‘73, and the most magnificent Lady Macbeth in ‘89…”

She had raised an eyebrow at the young man who couldn’t have been more than -

“I’m nineteen. I’ve seen the films - in the archives. I’m studying painting and Elizabethan Drama, I’ve seen everything you’ve done, everything that was filmed at any rate. There wasn’t a recording made of your Ophelia, I’m sure you were stunning. Sorry, my manners. Can we help you with something?”

“I saw the advert -”

“For the manager position?” Trev asked.

“But -” Will had stopped then looked in her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “When can you start?”

And she had been there ever since.

“Martha?”

“Hmm?”

“Your crisp? You might want to rescue it before it -”

“Bloody hell.”

“Save me a piece, hmm? Have to walk Vi, be back in a little while.”

“Be so careful out there, love.”

“I always am, Martha. I’ll be back soon.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter... of course, many thanks to Ariane DeVere for her brilliant transcript of ASiP:  
> https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”  
― Michael Cunningham

 

12\. 11. 2009

"London's 'finest' stumped by 'suicides'..." 

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock howled at his canvas as he listened to the press conference at Speedy’s right before the dinner rush began.

“Sherlock?” Ms. Hudson peered out from behind the kitchen door.

“It’s just -” He ruffled his hair and huffed non-committedly at the small piece he was working on. He spent a moment wondering if his work was becoming too derivative of Hopper, then laid his brush back into the golden paint and added another layer to the sketch, then rubbed his nose. “They are being kidnapped by someone, taken to a secluded, unpeopled place, then made to take the drug, and left there to die. It’s so ridiculously simple!”

“So… what are you going to do about it?” Martha raised a well sculpted eyebrow at him and crossed her arms.

“Me?”

“You.”

“I’m not -” He turned away from her and tried to focus on the painting in front of him, but could feel the heat from her gaze. “Martha. I’m just -”

“Maybe you could -”

“Everyone is as safe as they want to be…” Sherlock dropped the brush on the floor and swore as he finally turned to look up at the screen and froze as he recognised the man next to Greg as the man from the park. “Martha.” His voice was little more than a hush. “Did they say who the man next to DI Lestrade is?”

“Forensics, I think.”

“Name, Martha. I need to know his name -” 

Just then a name flashed on the screen as the older man cleared his throat and tried to prevent the disaster of a press conference from continuing. “John Watson?” Martha read out to him, in a whisper.

“It’s him, Martha.”

“So now you know where to send your anonymous note. It’s about time, don’t you think, love? To get back out there -”

“Martha.”

“He’d want you to.”

“It’s one thing to be down here, once in a while. Out there -?”

She walked over to him and picked up the brush from the floor and dropped it into the pint glass he had borrowed to put his solvent in. “Out there is scary. In here, yeah, it’s safe, love, but -”

“I know. I know you’re right. Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

“Sherlock Holmes. March your lovely arse upstairs and do it right, young man.”

He grinned at her and shook his head then kissed the top of her head and marched the aforementioned lovely arse up the stairs.

 

12.11.2009

DS J. Watson  
℅ DI Gregory Lestrade  
Scotland Yard

Re: your string of ‘serial suicides’:

Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them?  
Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?  
Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? 

I believe you know where to find me.

Respectively yours,  
S. Holmes


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...they finally meet.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”  
― Neil Gaiman

 

1.29.2010

 

Lestrade looked at the stack of mail and sighed, then chuckled as he picked up the first envelope. He shook his head as he pushed away from his desk, got to his feet and walked to his door, pulled it open and bellowed, “Doc. My office. Now.”

John glanced up from his morning emails and went.

“Cap?”

“Shut the door. Wanna try to explain this?” He handed the cream coloured envelope to his friend and crossed his arms.

John picked up the envelope and lifted it to his face. “Damn.”

“Go ahead, open it.”

“Cap…”

“Doc, just open it.”

John nodded and took it back to his desk, closed his laptop and put it away, then drew on a pair of gloves, though he knew it wouldn’t matter at this point, picked up his letter opener and carefully slit open the envelope, being cautious to keep his face away from the opening, just in case. Stranger things have happened… he shook the letter out and dropped the envelope. He had guessed who had written the letter from the instant he had seen the familiar handwriting on the envelope, but he became certain as he unfolded it, and saw the smudge of Red Gold Lake streaked across the edge of it. Fuck. Breathe. Just breathe.

 

12.11.2009

DS J. Watson  
℅ DI Gregory Lestrade  
Scotland Yard

Re: your string of ‘serial suicides’:

Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them?  
Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?  
Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? 

I believe you know where to find me.

Respectively yours,  
S. Holmes

 

John glanced nervously towards Lestrade’s office and saw his boss and friend leaning against the doorway. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, then stood up, picked up the letter, walked back into the office and closed the door behind him.

“Do you know him?” Lestrade asked quietly.

“Know him? Not exactly… no.” John bit his lip and fell into the chair.

“I do.”

“You do, what?” John turned in his chair and stared at him then tossed the letter om his desk. “You know this S. Holmes? What does this even mean? It’s a fucking riddle -”

Lestrade picked it up and read the short message, then laughed ruefully as he handed it back and walked over to his chair and dropped into it. “He just solved a big part of our case for us.”

“What? How -?”

“Not one of these people were known to be suicidal. They were all found in places they had never been before. They all overdosed on the same drug. He’s telling us what the killer is, even though he doesn’t know precisely who the killer is. They are murders, Doc. All of them. They were all poisoned.”

John closed his eyes for a moment and considered the brief note. “Bloody hell. It’s a fucking cabbie?”

“Come on. It’s time you met him and I think you have a bit of explaining to do? Like, for starters - why is it addressed to you?”

“Doesn’t he have a phone? He does know how to text, doesn’t he? He could have given us this before Christmas, we’ve lost all this time, when we could have been searching for -”

“John. He’s a reclusive professional letter writing portrait artist who owns a pub. We are coppers. We’ve had all the forensics, been at the crime scenes. He only leaves his flat to walk his dog. That’s it. He doesn’t owe us a bloody thing, mate. We are going to stop and pick up breakfast for him first, and call his partner, though she’s probably over at his flat already. It’s not a good day for them, but it will save him a phone call. Grab your coat.”

“Sir.”

 

Donovan opened the door, and stood back in surprise. “DI Lestrade? And - ah. Yes. He’s been - please come in. He’s just out walking Vi, should be back shortly. I’m guessing there’s no news -”

Lestrade shook his head. “Ms. Sally Donovan, this is DS John Watson. John, this is Ms. Sally Donovan. We brought breakfast - do you mind if we wait for him?”

“Please.” She took the bag from him and nodded toward the couch, then walked into the kitchen. “Guessing you’re here about his message? He’s been wondering if you ever received it, and since there had been no new ‘suicides’ he thought maybe you had figured it out, just hadn’t announced the arrest for some reason.”

“Our mail system is notoriously slow and with the holidays…”

Sally laughed as she returned to the sitting room. “He doesn’t have a phone, hasn't for the last, oh, ten years now. No reason to. Doesn’t have email, or a laptop. Part of it is to keep his brother out of his business. Mostly it’s because he has no use for technology. He’s a bit of a throwback. He’d be happier in Victoria's reign, I think.” She stopped and got up as they all heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She nodded at them and walked over to the door, opened it, then walked out onto the landing and closed the door behind her. 

“Lestrade’s here. With your - him.”

Sherlock ruffled the snow from his hair and handed Vi to Donovan then removed his gloves. “Really. He’s here? How do I -”

“Perfect. Don’t worry. They finally got your note.”

“Oh. Bloody hell. Is Lestrade annoyed?”

“No, I think he’s embarrassed that none of them figured it out.”

“It’s -”

“I know. Be gentle, filter a bit? Yeah?”

“Filter. Right.”

“Breathe. You’ll do fine. I’ll be right next to you.”

“Yeah. Okay. New people. I’m just not good at new people.”

“I know, but he’s not really new, is he?”

Sherlock looked at her and shook his head. “No. He isn’t.” He blew out a breath then nodded. “Ready.”

Donovan opened the door and waited for Sherlock to hang up his coat then shut the door and carried Vi to her bed. “DS Watson. This is my business partner, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, DS Watson.” 

John got up from the couch and offered Sherlock his hand. Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, then took his hand and held it carefully before he let it go and walked over to the window.

“You’re here -”

John took his seat on the couch and began. “Your letter. Of December 11th?”

“Yes.”

“You believe the serial suicides are in fact murders.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and faced him. “Yes.”

“They were poisoned?”

“Yes.”

“By a cabbie?”

“Obv -” Sherlock turned back towards the window and took a deep breath, then nodded at the street down below him. “If you looked out this window as often as I do, you’d see hundreds of people a week, getting into and out of cabs. No one pays any attention to cabbies. They are simply a convenience, a necessary, but fairly anonymous cog in our system of transportation. You couldn’t describe the last cabbie who picked you up, if I asked you, could you? Most likely not. Occasionally one might get into a conversation with a cabbie, but they are usually forgotten once you arrive at your destination and pay your fare. In the time I’ve stood here, I’ve seen six, no, seven cabs pass by. All quite indistinct from another, the ubiquitous London cab, the perfect vehicle for a kidnapper and serial killer. I wonder that it hasn’t been done before…”

“So these victims have all been -”

“Random. Chance. Bad luck. In the wrong place at the wrong time.” Sherlock shrugged and spun from the window. “Greg. I’m assuming you have no news regarding -”

“No.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the DI, then looked over at John and asked quietly, “does DS Watson know how we met?”

Lestrade shook his head, then looked at his hands in his lap. 

Sherlock nodded. “On January 29th, 1994, twenty year old Victor Trevor was legally crossing a street when a car, we think it was a late-model Jaguar, but it has yet to be identified, plowed through the red light, and - he died shortly thereafter at the scene. In my arms. DC Lestrade, as he was then, was the first on the scene.”

“He was your -”

“One of my best friends since the age of three, lover and partner since we were 17.”

“And -?” 

“No arrest has ever been made.”

“Your first case?” John turned and studied Lestrade’s face.

Lestrade nodded. “The only case I’ve never closed.”

“So you have known Ms. Donovan and Mr. Holmes here, for sixteen years?”

Lestrade nodded again. “I’ve been working the case ever since, hoping for a witness, something -”

“And you’ve never told me -”

“Doc.”

“Sorry.” He pinched his nose, then stood up and took his wallet out of his back pocket. “I have been wanting to return this to you, or to the rightful owner for nearly a year now. I found it on my last birthday, just sitting there on the sidewalk. Must’ve fallen out of his wallet or pocket; I could never figure out who the people were, and until today, I didn’t know who wrote this.” He pulled out the folded letter and walked over to stand in front of Sherlock. “It was the smudge of paint. Red Gold Lake. Old Holland. The tiniest trace. Took me months to figure out the brand and colour. I know what paper you used and where you purchased it; the brand of ink, what type of pen, that you are ambidextrous, but usually write with your right hand. I even know what hair gel you use.” He took Sherlock’s right hand into his and placed the letter into it, then folded the artist’s long fingers back over it. “Please, if you can, return this to Colin, or Paul. Tell them I’m sorry it took me so long to get it back to them. Cap - I need a bit of air, and then I’m going back to the station, see if I can get to work on the list of cabbies. It was good to meet you finally, Mr. Holmes. Ms. Donovan. Please excuse me.”

 

"No. Trev. Trev, you promised me, you promised. I love you. you can't -"

"Sorry, Will. Love you." Will whimpered into Trev’s hair as he felt his pulse stop under his fingers.

Donovan tried to pull him away before the men from the Medical Examiner took the body away, but he couldn't let him go. "No. Donovan - don't - let them."

"He's gone, Will. He's gone."

 

"NO!" Sherlock sat up in his chair and rubbed his face. Damn. He hadn't had that dream in years. He knew he should have gone to bed hours earlier. 

"Remember that night?" The faint voice seemed to smile at him.

"Course I do. Don't be daft."

"Not that night, idiot, you were always a bit slow."

"Was not."

"Were too. The night I told you I loved you for the first time. I thought you knew, but you were surprised."

"You caught me off guard, I was studying for an exam -”

"Which you didn't even need to study for."

"I always loved you, still love you."

"I know. But, it's time."

"Time?"

"You aren't really living, Will. You've trapped yourself here all this time. Why? Penance? For what? You shouldn't have stopped living because I was -"

"Gone. You were taken from us, from me. It wasn't -"

"Fair?"

"No, of course it wasn't bloody fair. It wasn't your time. I didn't have enough time. We didn’t have enough time. I hadn't told you enough, hadn’t proven to you -"

"What did you have to prove to me, Holmes? I knew you loved me, you were there, always there for me, it's time to let someone be there for you. You have time, love. You are so brilliant, and as lovely, lovelier than you ever were. You have so much love in you, don't waste it. You are so loved, Will. You will always be Will to me. Be Sherlock for him, be who you should have been, let me go, love. It's time."

"Trev? Damn." Sherlock uncurled from the chair and stretched, then pulled out his pocket watch from his painting trousers. Two in the morning. At least he had the painting to work on… he replaced his watch and looked in the mirror, then sighed at the paint stuck in his curls.

DS Watson. Doc. John. John… focus. 

"I don't know how to do this, Trev. Tell me how. Tell me how to start again?"

A gentle tap at the door broke him from his thoughts and he strode to the door and threw it open.

"Do you have any idea what time it -" His words shuddered to a halt as he found John Watson in his doorway.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more John and Sherlock...

“For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation.”  
― May Sarton

 

John nodded sheepishly. "Sorry. I think I left my keys here, maybe in the couch? I can't get into my flat, and my sister is out of town this week -"

Sherlock turned away, raising his eyes upward, then shook his head at the grinning ghost he was sure was lurking somewhere, just out of his line of sight. 

"Ah, here they are, fell between the cushions. Sorry, again. I hope I didn't wake you."

"No. I don't sleep much, as a rule." 

"I don’t either.”

"Even when you don't lock yourself out of your flat?" Sherlock turned in time to catch John's smile. It was more of a smirk, but -

"I'll be going now. Listen, I’m sorry about today. Leaving like that, the way I did. It’s just, I became a bit, I don’t know, attached, I guess is the word, to figuring out who, well, who you were. And then, you turned out to be who you are. I saw you at the park, in July. I don’t know if you remember. No, you probably don’t. Never mind. Again, my apologies, and thank you for the help, with the case.” John looked down at his watch to avoid the eyes that no doubt were watching him closely and turned towards the door.

"Wait."

John stopped and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and waited, expectantly, still not sure what to make of the man who was studying him in a way he'd never felt before.

"I need to show you something.”

John returned the searching gaze, and shrugged. "Okay.”

"Well, it’s, hmm. Upstairs - my actual studio, though I paint wherever, please? I know it’s late, or early, I suppose, depending on how you see it, but -.”

“Lead on.”

Sherlock nodded, then began to walk towards a short staircase. “I have a lot of time to myself, when we don’t have clients. I have a lot of time to read, work on the novel I’ll never finish, or start for that matter, and I paint, as you know. You said that you had become a bit ‘attached’ to discovering who the letter writer was, yes?”

John nodded, and held his breath as Sherlock put his hand on the doorknob, then slowly opened the door. The room was well lit, and the walls were covered in canvases, some were of Donovan as a younger woman, and as a child, others were obviously of Victor Trevor, but one wall was all small sketches and studies of himself. John walked over to see them closer, and marveled at the detail. “You did these from that one moment at the park?”

Sherlock nodded again. “The more recent canvases are from the press conference, where I learned of the third murder and your name. I actually contacted my brother so I could get a copy of it, of you. There was something - something in the way you looked at me that day in the park -”

“It was as if you knew me.”

“-or that you understood something that very few people understand. It was recognition of, I don’t know, to be honest. I was trying to remember whether it was a certain way the light hit, or - I’m sorry, this must seem odd to you. Please, if you have someone who would like to have - god, I sound ridiculous. I’ve never-”

“You’re doing fine.” John turned from the paintings and looked up at Sherlock, then reached out to steady him as he nearly toppled over. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. I’m fine. If there is a girlfriend, or a boyfriend that would like to have -”

"If I had a 'friend', it would be of the male variety. But I don’t.”

"Good."

"Good?" John smiled at him and Sherlock felt his face heat up, and he turned away to adjust a slightly crooked painting.

“The woman you were with at the park that day, you are close friends with her, but -”

“We’ve known each other since primary school. It was her birthday that day.”

“Ah.” Sherlock nodded. “Perhaps she would like one - or if you would like to sit for me, here - or downstairs at Speedy’s, I could - never mind. Bad idea. Terrible idea. I’m keeping you, and you are still working on narrowing the suspects down, the cabbies?”

John shook his head. “Found him. He had crashed his cab, luckily his passenger managed to escape from being seriously injured, just bumps and bruises. Seems he had an aneurysm, a ticking time bomb in his head, guessing maybe that’s why he was doing it, nothing to lose, I suppose?” He mused aloud, more to himself than to Sherlock, then stopped and rubbed his nose.

“How did you know it was him?”

“Trophies, in a metal box under his seat. The victims’ phones. His passenger doesn’t know how truly fortunate she was today. Lestrade is notifying the families. Otherwise he would have come over here himself to tell you. He’s going to be annoyed that he wasn’t the one to give you the good news. I get off work early on Friday, unless we have a case.”

"Friday - ?"

“You asked if I would sit for you?” John asked quietly. “Unless -”

“No, Friday, Friday is good.”

“I get off around five, I can be here at 5:30 if I don’t go home and change first.”

“Whatever would make you more comfortable -” Sherlock started, unsure of what to say next.

“How about 6? I can bring some take-away, or - if it’s too much like a date -”

“No, take-away would be lovely.”

“I should be going.” John found himself whispering for some reason, then he cleared his throat and Sherlock spun towards the door.

“Right. Let me walk you downstairs - the light isn’t very good. Trev was always after me to add more lighting in the hallway. But -” He walked out of the studio and waited as John stepped through the door, then closed it behind him and followed him down the steps and to the door of the flat.

“You have your keys, then.”

John grinned and pulled them out of his pocket. “Thanks. It really is good to finally meet you, put a name to the face. Friday, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Friday,” then watched as John walked out the door and down the steps. He closed the door and shut his eyes as he leaned against it, then mumbled to himself, “what have I done?”

 

1.31. 2010

“DS Watson?”

John looked up and met dark copper eyes, slightly nervous, but her gaze was strong, and he nodded at the seat next to his desk and sat up a bit taller. "You are Sherlock's friend, right? Ms. Donovan?"

"You remembered. Look. I'll get to the point. I know you have work to do, I wouldn't have come if I thought, if I didn't think. Sorry. He's my best friend, and I don't want him to get hurt, and at the same time, you seem like a decent bloke. I like the DI, he's always been fair to us, more than, ever since - anyone else would have let Trev's case go a long time ago, but I know it weighs on him. The DI trusted you enough to - damn."

"Look, it's nearly time for my lunch break, let's go across the street, there's a cafe, does a decent sandwich. My treat."

 

“Can I ask you something?” John began as they sat down at the table with their orders.

“Of course.”

“I understand from what Cap, sorry, DI Lestrade said to me, that he, Sherlock, doesn’t, well, interact with many people on a regular basis, is that fair to say?”

Donovan smiled at him a bit sadly and nodded. “More than fair.”

“He showed me the paintings he had done since July and from that disaster of a press conference.”

She froze for a moment, then picked up her sandwich and took her time examining it, before answering. “He doesn’t - well, as you said, he doesn’t interact with many people, but if you are asking if that was unusual for him, the answer is yes. I don’t go up there, anymore. It was my room, and then, when I found my own flat, and left, he turned it into - he calls it his studio. It’s a shrine, more or less. He's done portraits of three other people. His brother, the small painting that sits next to Billy, the skull, you may have noticed on the mantelpiece, that’s him when he was much younger, when they still spoke; he's done some of me, but not in years. His most frequent model was Trev. He put many of those paintings into storage, as a favour to me. He was going to destroy them, but I asked him not to. So yes, you are correct in your assumption that it means a great deal for him to share with you in that way."

"I do find him -" He paused and looked for help from her, but finding none, grinned at her and shrugged. "Unique? I think that's the only word that really describes him well."

"There are many words that could describe him and you are being kind. He's never been what you might call 'people-friendly,' but before Trev, when Trev was alive, Sherlock, he was known as Will then, he had a light in him. He was brilliant, still is, it's just been buried under so much pain and fear of, I don’t know what, exactly, and there hasn't been anyone willing to do the excavation necessary to find the person he was then. I don't even know if that person still exists any longer. It has always felt as though I lost them both when Trev died. I have bits of Will still. He loves me, loves me like no one else ever has, and he trusts me. He's my family, that's the short and the tall of it. I just don't want - he's a bit, well, intense in his reaction to people, and it seems he has found a connection, or wants to build a connection with you. Just please, be careful with his heart, if he gets hurt again -"

John nodded. "I understand. I will tread lightly, Ms. Donovan. He is very fortunate to have a friend like you.”

Donovan shook her head. “No, DS Watson, I’m the fortunate one.”

“Please, call me John?”

“I’m Sally, but my friends call me Donovan.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit.

“Don't give in to your fears. If you do, you won't be able to talk to your heart.” - Paulo Coelho

 

John opened his laptop, and began to write an email, only to chuckle to himself as he realised there was no point. Sherlock didn’t own a laptop, let alone an email address. He pulled his phone from his pocket, and nearly texted Greg to ask for his number, he knew Greg had to have a way of contacting him, but whether it was a landline attached to a rotary phone that was buried somewhere in that flat, or if it was a phone service, or Sally’s number, he didn’t know. He got up from his desk and paced for a few minutes until he heard the bang of the front door, then heavy steps pause briefly at his door, then continued on. Harry was back early from seeing Clara. How she managed to carry on a successful long distance relationship, he had no idea, but perhaps that was the reason it worked so well and for as long as it had. He thought about going upstairs to talk to her, but knew it was best to let her decompress first.

A letter. 

Hell, it was already Thursday, yes, early morning, but still. You are seeing him tomorrow, it wouldn’t even get to him until Saturday or Monday, and who knew what would happen tomorrow night. It might be a complete disaster. He should try to sleep, but he knew if he tried at this point, as wound up as he was, the nightmares would come. 

What would he write anyway? What could he possibly come up with that could tell Sherlock what he felt the moment he walked into the room less than two days earlier. He was still trying to process what it was he actually had felt. He was trying to figure out what it was in Sherlock’s eyes that made him confess what was essentially an obsession with a love letter that wasn’t meant for him to the person who had written it. He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so completely -

Naked. 

And he had been fully dressed. 

He flung himself into his chair, dug around in the desk drawer until he found a pen, pulled out his notebook that he carried on crime scenes and began to write.

 

January 31, 2010

Dear John -

 

Sherlock held the pen over the bottle of ink and shook his head. He couldn’t recall that he had ever written Trev a love letter when he had been alive. No, he knew he hadn’t, because he never needed to. He could tell him with a single look, a touch. And Trev knew. He just always knew, words just made everything more, what? Trivial. He laid his pen down, rose from his chair and walked to the window, and let his eyes close as he pressed his forehead against the chill of the glass. He pictured the journey that John’s face had undergone when he had walked into the room on Tuesday. Surprise, no not surprise, astonishment? Mixed with a bit of relief? Why relief? They had shaken hands, and Sherlock had explained the cabbie theory, rather poetically he had thought - and then he had turned around and watched as John surrendered. 

It was a surrender. 

The brief glimpse of the walls Sherlock had seen in the guarded look in his eyes and heard in his direct, business-like questions had vanished as he confessed his discovery of the letter and his months long search for its author, and then he had reached for his hand to place the letter into it. He shivered as he had then, as John gently folded his fingers over the paper, then walked out the door. How does one even begin to compose such a thing?

He hadn’t a clue.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First date...

“Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.”  
― Anais Nin

 

“Hot date, hmm?” Harry asked as John was locking up his flat.

“Uhm - no, not really a ‘date’ date…”

“Just spent twenty minutes fussing with your hair and changed your shirt three times to walk to the pub?” She smirked at him and nodded at the door.

John rolled his eyes, but unlocked the door and pushed it open. Harry dropped onto the couch and laid her hands in her lap. “Well?”

“Right. You know how I found that letter?”

“The letter you obsessed over for months? That letter?”

“The very one.” He pulled his chair near the couch and straddled it, knowing that if he didn’t just get it over with she would nag at him until he told her everything. “Short version. Because I have a take-away order to pick up on my way.”

“Short version.”

“Found the writer, because of the paint smudge and because he basically solved that weird string of serial suicides which weren’t suicides but random poisonings by a cabbie, and Greg has known him for years because on his first day, the writer’s partner was killed in a hit and run, and sixteen years later they still don’t know who did it. And we, the writer and I kind of bumped into each other at the park on Molly’s last birthday, and he started doing paintings of me from memory -”

“While you were trying to figure out who wrote the letter?”

“Right.”

“Weird, but in a good way.”

“Right?”

“So…”

“So, on Tuesday, when we finally met, he asked if I would do some sittings for him, so he could do a portrait; I suggested tonight, because it’s my early day - and damn, Harry, I’m going to be late, if I don’t leave now.”

“Go. Be brave, Doc.” John got up from his chair and walked over to her, then kissed her cheek. “Go on, get out of here - I’ll lock up, sweet, go.” 

“Thanks, Harry.”

She laid back against the couch and closed her eyes as she let out a breath. “Good luck, Doc.”

 

“He’s not coming.” Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he nervously looked out the window for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“He’ll be here.” Donovan muttered back.

“It’s 6:01.”

“It’s a Friday night. Traffic, could be his order is taking longer -”

“Buzzer.”

Donovan grinned at him. “Buzzer.” She kissed his forehead, then wiped the evidence away. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be at Speedy’s for a couple of hours helping out, if you get nervous, bring him down. Just remember to breathe and you’ll be fine.”

“Breathe, right.”

“I’m going, now.”

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Donovan placed her hands on his face and looked into his eyes.

“I know, Sal, I know.”

“Good. I’m going.”

She opened the door and smiled at John. “I’ll be down at Speedy’s - one of Ms. Hudson’s cooks didn’t show up and it’s Fish and Chips night -”

John smiled back and nodded, then let her pass, and he walked into the flat and closed the door behind him.

“Hey. I, wasn’t sure what you liked -”

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Angel hair with fresh tomatoes, garlic and olive oil, if I’m not mistaken. It’s better eaten while it’s still warm if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course.” John nodded and carried the bag into the kitchen. “Angelo gave me two servings, we don’t need to get fancy -”

Sherlock smiled at him, then looked away. “It’s been a while since I did this.”

“Me too.”

“Couch?”

“Sure.”

They moved to the couch and placed their containers on the coffee table. John closed his eyes and shook his head. “To be honest, I’m not really hungry.”

“Me either,” Sherlock whispered.

“I wrote you ten pages of a letter, and then I binned it all, it was just gibberish. They were really tiny pages, and my handwriting stinks, you wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway.”

Sherlock laughed. “I couldn’t write a single word for the last two and a half days. Haven’t had writer’s block this bad since uni and I was trying to finish my thesis.”

John put his fork down and turned towards Sherlock. “I know this might sound ridiculous, and if it is, just tell me -”

Sherlock dropped his fork on the table and laid a tentative hand over John’s as he lifted his head to meet John’s dark gaze. “It isn’t, it feels like I know you, not in some - damn, I’m out of practice. People aren’t -.” He took a deep breath and let it go slowly, then watched as John gently picked up his hand in his, and brought it to his lips, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s, and pressed a light kiss to his knuckles, then lowered their hands, but didn’t let go.

“I’ve never been in love before. I haven’t ever let myself trust anyone long enough for that to happen. I can’t even tell you that I understand anything about what you have been through over the last years, all I can do is be here now. And yes, one day, when you are ready, if you are ever ready, I would very much like to kiss you, or be kissed by you, or both, but I’m not in a rush, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand and nodded. “Thank you. Do you mind if I paint you now?”

John shook his head and smiled. “No, not at all. It’s why I’m here. Well, that, and so I can sit and do nothing but watch you paint.”

Sherlock bit his lip, then lifted his hand until it lightly cradled John’s jawline, and slowly moved closer until he could feel John’s breath against his lips, then closed his eyes and kissed him softly. “Sorry. I’ve been thinking of little else since July.”

“One track mind, hmm?” John grinned against Sherlock’s lips, then cleared his throat, and reached up to brush an errant curl from his eyes. “Do you mind if I tell you something?”

“No.”

“I think you’re beautiful, and brilliant, and remarkable, and I have the feeling I’ve been waiting for you all of my life.”

“You believe that?”

“I do.” John’s eyes sparkled at him, and Sherlock froze.

“Don’t move. There - just - god. Just - I’ll be right back.”

John barely breathed as Sherlock scrambled to his easel and quickly mixed one colour, then another and another, and spent the next two hours mumbling to himself until he stopped and ran his paint covered fingers through his disheveled hair.

“You can move now, I’m sorry - you - I’ve never -”

John slowly got up from the couch, and walked over to where Sherlock was standing, and looked at his own image reflected back to him. “Is that - do you really see me that way?”

“It’s what I saw the day at the park, the sparkle - light, whatever - “

John turned and threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s paint streaked curls, and drew him into a sweet, tender kiss, then began to back away when Sherlock let the brush fall to the floor as he pulled John into his arms and returned the sweetness with a desperate longing that left them both stunned and breathless.

“Will you stay for tonight, please?”

“For as long as you want me to,” John whispered, then closed his eyes as he leaned into Sherlock’s chest. “As long as you want me to.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV...

“I want to be with you, it is as simple and as complicated as that.” - Charles Bukowski

 

There was a moment of silence, and then another. John couldn’t remember when he had heard a silence so complete, not since Afghanistan, and for a moment he forgot where he was, and then he hoped he could recall how to breathe. Gradually sound returned; he could hear Sherlock’s heartbeat, which was followed by the slight hum of the evening traffic, and then a soft rumble seemed to surround him, and he realised Sherlock was laughing.

He gave a brief thought to moving, but at some point, long arms had cautiously wrapped around him, one hand settling on his hip, the other gently cradling the back of his head as he rested against Sherlock’s chest, and he realised it wouldn’t bother him if he never moved from this spot. 

There should be something said, someone should say something soon, and then it occurred to him that too many people spoke too many words because they couldn’t deal with silence, with stillness, with the unknown. As he found himself relaxing deeper against the man who held him, the laughter ended and he began to listen to the simple sound of Sherlock breathing. In and out, in and - 

“God, I’m exhausted.” The words reverberated, louder than any explosion he’d ever heard, and he wished he could take them back the instant they left his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Don’t let go - I mean, if you want to, need to - I’ll just -”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his hair, and tightened his arms around him, then lowered his head so his lips were at John’s ear. “May I take you to bed, John? Just to rest for now, though if other activities should occur to you, I assure you, I would not be averse.”

John nodded against Sherlock’s chest, as he knew whatever words he could find would be inadequate, and let out a breath as long fingers entwined with his; not another word was spoken until they were standing in a bedroom, and Sherlock’s fingers had moved to the top button of his shirt. He should be nervous, should be warning him, stopping him from seeing, but as his shirt fell to the floor and Sherlock’s warm lips found his again, he realised he’d never wanted anything more in his life than to be seen by the man who understood silence better than he knew all 206 bones of the human body.

“John, if you want me to stop. Tell me.”

John shook his head and shivered as his t-shirt was lifted off and tossed aside, and the voice was at his ear again. “So beautiful.” Whatever words he expected to hear they weren’t those, and his breath caught. “So very beautiful, John.”

He felt himself shudder and Sherlock’s arms enveloped him, stopping him from shattering into millions of pieces. There were words but he couldn’t focus on them as he allowed Sherlock to lift him easily onto the bed. There were thoughts, but the only one he held onto as he tumbled into sleep was that he had never felt safe or loved until the moment Sherlock curled around him and whispered, “rest, John. Just rest.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and Sherlock...

“I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”   
― Rainer Maria Rilke

 

He didn’t know why he started laughing. It simply felt the most true thing, the most honest reaction once he felt John was able to catch his breath. It was as if the bubbles of an old bottled up joy had suddenly been unstoppered and there was nowhere to go but up and out. He had let his right arm drift lower until it rested naturally on John’s hip, while his left hand ended up protectively on the back of John’s head, and after a moment, he stopped, and waited, waited for everything to resettle around him, around them. They had already become a them.

Had it happened in that moment in July? Or the moment a flash of recognition flared in John’s eyes as they shook hands? Or was it now? The moment they began breathing together? He knew John needed to know something, know enough to even begin to think of how to ask a question about what was happening, he could feel the temptation in the way he tensed in his arms, but then he let it go, and Sherlock understood. Understood that John had surrendered again, surrendered the need to know, to analyse, and to accept or reject, and he held on tighter as John buried his face in his chest.

“God, I’m exhausted…. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Don’t let go - I mean, if you want to, need to - I’ll just -” 

Sherlock brushed a kiss on the top of John’s head, then gingerly shifted just enough so his lips were at his ear. “May I take you to bed, John? Just to rest for now, though if other activities should occur to you, I assure you, I would not be averse.” He held his breath as he wondered if he had pushed too much, too fast, then let it go slowly as he felt John nod in agreement. His fingers somehow traveled far enough so they could find John’s, which had found purchase on the front of his smock and were tangled tightly in the fabric, as if he would crumble if he relinquished his grip. He loosened them gently, then entwined them together, and was astonished at how they fit together; his long, overlarge, paint stained fingers, slotted perfectly between John’s smaller, but seemingly sturdier digits, and he carefully guided them to his bedroom, closing his eyes, letting his instinct guide them there.

He opened his eyes to find John looking up at him. Again, he watched John fight with himself, fight against the fear of being seen, of being seen and being rejected, and the fear of being known, and accepted, then let it all go as he closed his eyes and waited. Sherlock reached up and undid the top button of the pale green shirt that made his eyes seem even darker, and his fingers kept moving lower until he was able to push it from John’s weary shoulders. “John? If you want me to stop. Tell me.”

He waited until John opened his eyes and shook his head, and raised his arms as Sherlock’s fingers teased at the edge of his t-shirt, and pulled it easily over his head. He heard the sharp intake of breath and could see John shiver in front of him, and knew at once that it was one of the bravest acts he had ever witnessed. He leaned in close, and buried his fingers in John’s hair, then whispered, “so beautiful.” 

Sherlock’s heart cracked wide open as John let out an anguished sob, not expecting to hear those words. “So very beautiful, John.” Then he wrapped his other arm around the trembling form in front of him and held him tightly for what felt like hours, but was in fact mere seconds, until they both could breathe easily again, and he could lift him gently into the soft bed. He wondered at the trust of the man who laid there, curled up on his side and he untied his painting smock, letting it fall to the floor, then climbed into bed, otherwise fully dressed, and curled himself around the silently shaking form; pulling the cover over both of them, then finding his fingers, twined them together once more, as he whispered, “rest John. Just rest.”

 

He opened his eyes hours later to find John studying him. If there were questions, John didn’t ask them, he just leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, then drew back and cleared his throat. “I have to go home and change for work right now, but I would very much like to see you tonight after, maybe actually eat a meal with you this time? There should be something I should be able to say to you, something that will tell you what last night meant to me, but I’ll be damned if I know what it would be. So, I’m just going to put my clothes and shoes back on, and go home, and think of nothing else but you all day.” Sherlock nodded and propped himself up on an elbow as he watched John get dressed in silence, then turn and face him again. “May I - one more?”

Sherlock nodded again, and closed his eyes as John climbed back onto the bed and held his face lightly in his hands then kissed him fiercely, yet somehow sweetly at the same time, then drew back, and as Sherlock opened his eyes again found John smiling at him with that same light that had sparkled at him last night. “John.”

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you.”

John snorted and ran his hand through his rumpled hair. “I think those are the words I couldn’t think of? But you are quite welcome, Sherlock Holmes. I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Nine o’clock. Order something you’ll eat, hmm… god - you’re stunning. Even with paint in your hair... I gotta go. Bye.”

“Bye.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and didn’t move until he heard the door close behind John, then he pulled John’s pillow to his face and breathing in his scent, slept peacefully until noon.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning/afternoon after.

“There's not a word yet, for old friends who've just met.”   
― Jim Henson

 

“Mornin’ Doc.” Lestrade looked at his friend as he walked into his office and dropped into the seat in front of him. “Hot date last night?”

“Can I take a look at the file on the Victor Trevor case?”

“Sure. There’s not much to it -”

“Witnesses?”

“Just Sherlock and Ms. Donovan, he was crossing the street towards them when he was hit. No one else seems to have seen anything, at least no one’s come forward yet, and believe me I tried - why the interest, wait, did something happen -?”

“I realised at two in the morning on Wednesday, that I didn’t have my keys, and Harry was spending the week with Clara, and, well, then I remembered when I took my wallet out of my pocket at Sherlock’s flat, my keys must’ve fallen out of my pocket -”

“So you went to his place at two in the morning -” 

“And - we talked a bit.”

“And…”

“I may have…”

“Doc?”

“He wanted to paint me.”

“Uhmhmmm?”

“So, I brought dinner over there last night from Angelo’s, which we never got around to eating -”

“The two of you -”

“No, not exactly. I did stay the night, and I’m going back over there after work tonight - he - he’s quite something.”

“Doc.”

“He understands things that I can’t even -”

“Just be careful, yeah?”

John blushed and shook his head. “He’s seen me, Cap. Most of - it, and he doesn’t care. No, that’s not it, he understands how I feel about it, but he makes it seem that it’s not important, d’ya know what I mean? Since I’ve been back, no one’s wanted to be close enough to see -”

Greg opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thin file, and pushed it across to John. “Knock yerself out, just go easy, yeah? He is a remarkable guy, sees more than most people do, but he’s been mostly on his own, John, for a long time now. He might not know how to - I dunno. Just take your time, hmmm?”

“Cap. I’m going to be 40 next month. Do you know how long it’s been, since anyone has - no, I know you do. I know what I felt last night, what he felt last night was real, he’s been alone yes, but so have I - and I think it’s time for both of us, no matter that we’ve only just met each other - it doesn’t feel that way. He waits for me, he knew what I was thinking, and let me think it, let me deal with it my own way and was there for me.”

Greg studied his friend’s face and nodded. “Look the file over and see if anything pops up at you, I think we’ve still got stuff in evidence; I think it’s in the cold cases now, but maybe you can find something we missed. I wish you luck with all of it, Doc. Whatever it is, it looks good on you.”

“Thanks, Cap.” John grinned at him, then hopped out of the chair and walked back over to his desk and opened the file.

 

“Coffee.” Sherlock mumbled as he walked into the kitchen.

“Afternoon.” Donovan grinned at him as she placed a cup in his hands and watched him sigh as he took a sip. “So…”

“So? Oh. About last night?”

“Yes, ‘about last night’ he asks…” Donovan winked at Vi who had curled up in her bed and was trying to ignore them both.

“He brought dinner and stayed the night.”

“You ate dinner.”

“Didn’t say that.” Sherlock couldn’t help but blush as he smiled at her. “He’s coming back tonight after work.”

“So you can paint him again?” She asked innocently enough.

“You saw - “

“Of course I saw it, it’s brilliant, love. I haven’t seen you do anything like it before, not even Trev -”

“It’s - he’s.”

Donovan watched his face change as he struggled for the words.

“It’s not… with Trev, I knew him so well by the time we - I didn’t have to learn - I always understood there were, I don’t know, places I couldn’t touch, couldn’t reach in him. With John, I don’t have to tread lightly, no, that’s not it either. I don’t feel like I have to -”

“Filter?” She asked quietly.

“Yeah, maybe? I can ask him to take chances with me, on me, without even using words, and he lets me see him. I don’t know if that makes any sense? He trusts me, Donovan, in a way that Trev never did. That sounds -”

“No. I know. Trev loved you more than he had ever loved anyone in his entire life, and he knew you loved him too, but, he had those things he couldn’t share, even with you. I know how much that hurt you, I think he knew too, and if he had more time, he might have - I don’t know, Sherlock. I can tell, though, how much -”

“Do you mind, Donovan?”

She glanced up and seeing the worried look in his eyes, shook her head. “No, of course not. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy. And you haven’t been happy for so long -”

“You’ve - I’ve always wondered, if you would have found someone, if you hadn’t been watching over me, I never wanted you to feel like you -”

“I’ve been here, I’ve spent the last fifteen years doing this, what we do together, because, well, because we are brilliant at it, and you’re my friend, and my family, Sherlock.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me. Even if I walk out that door and meet Mr. Right, he’s not going to stop me from being your friend, not ever. Got it? Now tell me everything.”

Sherlock blushed furiously but smiled at her, as he took her hand in his and told her of the night before.

 

“Cap?”

“Yeah.”

“Trevor’s date of birth.”

“Uhmhmm.”

“It was February third.”

“Yep.”

“And according to the witness statement, Ms. Donovan’s birth date is the same. Not a typo?”

“Not a typo.”

John sat down in the chair and rubbed his face. “Hell.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow is gonna be -”

John nodded. “Gotta run out for a bit, I have my phone if a case comes up, yeah?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes but shrugged. “Lunchtime anyhow.”

“Right. Don’t worry, Cap.”

“I won’t. I’ve seen that look before, I know you’ll be fine, John.” He watched as his friend smiled in a way he hadn’t seen in years, if ever, then hopped up from the chair again, strode over to his desk, grabbed his wallet from his desk and his coat from his chair, and with one last nod at his commanding officer, walked purposely out of the building and into a rare sunny February day.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly talks John out of his 'cold feet' and a second 'dinner date'

“No human relation gives one possession in another—every two souls are absolutely different. In friendship or in love, the two side by side raise hands together to find what one cannot reach alone.”  
― Khalil Gibran

 

“Molly.”

“John?” She glanced up at him from her computer monitor and bit her lip.

“Talk me out of it.”

“Out of what? No, wait. You’ve met him, ‘him’ him. The phantom dog walker from the park - or your mystery writer? John. Please, don’t even try to tell me, that -”

“One and the same. I’m on my lunch break, and I have to run an errand, but - he’s. Molly, I turn 40 next month, and I’ve never -”

“Sit down before you fall down.”

He sat in the chair in front of her desk and tried to take a breath. “I can’t tell you everything right now, it’s too much and just too perfect, and I’m going to ruin it like I always do.”

Molly waited for him to catch his breath, then slowly inhale again, then close his eyes as he let the breath go again. “He’s, he’s just not even real Molly. He can’t be.”

“I stopped by your flat last night, and Harry caught me leaving you a note, just in case you misplaced your phone again.”

“Ah. So she -”

“Said something about you having a date, but not a date, she was all mysterious, but she wouldn’t tell me anything else, for once. She didn’t spill it, though I could tell it was killing her, then her phone went off, and she excused herself... so, let’s see, tall, dark curly hair, amazing eyes - uhm…” She closed her eyes and mumbled to herself, “hazel, no, blue-green, this time? You usually like brown, but -”

“I let him see, Molly. He asked to see, I think he knew, somehow. Maybe he knows about Greg - and - I didn’t bolt. I thought about it, and he knew I thought about it. But I stayed, and he - he just put me to bed and let me sleep. I haven’t slept like that in years. And I’m terrified, Mol. I’m afraid I could get used to him, to this feeling of -”

“You’re happy, John. That feeling? That is called being happy, and when your mouth curls up like it is doing right now, that is called a smile. And as long as your mystery man isn’t a serial killer, if he can make my best friend smile like that, he’s okay in my book.”

John laughed, then got up from the chair and walked around the desk to kiss her, then wrap his arms around her. “When I have time, there’s a funny story I need to tell you. Maybe over dinner tomorrow?”

“Won’t you be busy tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t think so. Dim Sum?”

“7ish?”

“Ta, Mol. Love you.”

“Love you back.”

 

“Wasn’t sure you would come back,” Sherlock muttered carefully from his easel, as John knocked on the open door, and looked around the room for him.

“To be honest, wasn’t sure myself for a minute or two. Can you come over here to the couch, I need to tell you something.”

Sherlock glared at the painting in front of him, then glanced up and saw an expression in John’s face that he couldn’t decipher. He shrugged, then dropped his brush in the cleaning solution, unsure of what would happen next. He wasn’t sure he completely liked not knowing-

“Please?”

Sherlock walked over to where John was still standing, and was surprised when he held out a bag to him.

“I need to explain. When I went into work this morning, I asked to see the file on the hit and run. I didn’t know about Greg’s first case until just recently, and I’ve known him a long time, we served together-”

“In Afghanistan.”

“Right. He told you about me?”

“No, the year his wife died, he came to visit me. He usually just gets a message to me, every year, to let me know the progress or lack thereof on the case, and I had seen the obituary, for her, and he let me know that the 29th had other significance for him, as it is also the day he and a mate had been captured, while in Afghanistan and it was also his son’s birthday.” Sherlock stopped speaking, then took the offered bag from John’s hand, and sat on the couch. “If you read the file, then you know that tomorrow is Trev’s birthday, and there is probably some record as well, that he shared his birthday with Donovan.” He opened the bag and pulled out the boxed set of Bond movies, plus the most recently released additions to the series.

“I wasn’t sure if your player was bluray or not, so I just bought the HD. No, movie preferences weren’t in the file. I’m not as brilliant as you, but as I sat here on the couch last night, I had time to learn about you. You shared this flat with him and Sally for years, and some of it is still them, you surround yourself with what they love, so you feel like they are with you still. The Bond movies are definitely them. I’m guessing on their birthday, you would suffer through one or two movies with them, because you -”

“John.”

“I want you to know, I understand. I have lots of work I need to do, there are always cold cases, and boring computer work that needs doing - and I have dinner plans, with the woman you saw on the bench that day in the park, and I would also understand if you need this, whatever this, is, us - to slow down, so you can, I don’t know -”

“Please. John?”

“I’m talking too much, I know. I do that when I’m nervous. I’m not good at this kind of stuff - talking about this, about what I want, because - I don’t normally, well, I haven’t at all, not since Afghanistan. You are the first to see - to see what I look like.”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked quietly as he held the box tighter in his arms.

“To be honest, I want you. To be with you in whatever way you want, and I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’ve been with a lot of different blokes, safely, monogamously, I am, was a doctor, after all, but it was mostly so I’d have someone to talk to, oddly enough - not because - I know I’m still talking, but I need to say this, so you won’t have any doubts - sorry - but last night, when you held me, in front of the easel, I would have happily spent the rest of my life like that, just being there, here with you. And then you took me into your bedroom, and - you made me feel normal for the first time since I’ve been home. I know that might not seem like a lot, but, at that moment when you saw me, really saw me, and told me I was beautiful, and you meant it, I would’ve fallen over if you hadn’t been there.”

“It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do, John. I didn’t know, I theorised that you had been with Lestrade when he was captured, but I didn’t know the extent of what had happened to you. The idea that you were able to trust me like that - I wasn’t lying when I told you that you are beautiful, I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful in my life.”

“Sherlock.”

“Are you hungry, because if you are -”

“Not in the least,” John whispered as he stood up, gently took the box from Sherlock’s arms and placed it on the coffee table, then offered Sherlock his hand, and helped him to his feet, and into his arms. “Did you eat today?”

“This afternoon - I rarely eat when I work - no more talking, John.”

“No more talking.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mostly fluff...

“Close friends are truly life's treasures. Sometimes they know us better than we know ourselves. With gentle honesty, they are there to guide and support us, to share our laughter and our tears. Their presence reminds us that we are never really alone.”  
― Vincent van Gogh

 

He wondered why he wasn’t nervous as John slowly untied the belt of his smock, then easily removed it from his shoulders and draped it over a chair. Dark blue eyes smiled up at him as the strong, nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirt, and that too was soon dispatched. He felt himself flinch involuntarily as John reached out and laid a hand lightly on his chest. It had been so long, so very long since anyone had touched him in that way, not just physically, but in a way that made him feel connected to the world, when he had long ago suspected he no longer belonged to it. And then John’s fingers were in his hair, pulling him in into a kiss that made him stop caring about anything else.

He wanted everything to slow down, or speed up, or stop, he wasn’t quite sure, then John drew back and lifted his jumper and t-shirt off together, and his ability to simply breathe became an issue. He wanted to touch, to wrap himself up in the man who stood in front of him, and disappear within him somehow, wanted to know - and John’s arms were around him, keeping him from shaking apart.

“It’s okay.”

“John.”

“Yeah. I know. Tell me?”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder, then stilled as he struggled to find the correct words. “Can’t. Just want to feel. Didn’t know… forgot.”

John lifted him onto the bed, as he done for him just the night before, then stepped out of his trousers, and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks. Sherlock sat up and moved to sit behind him, and felt as they trembled together when he leaned his forehead against John’s back, then slowly wrapped his arms and legs around him, keeping them both tethered to when and where they were.

“Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock whispered, then pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades and heard John whimper out his name. He rested his cheek against his back, and feeling the ridges of scars, held on tighter, as John lowered his head and began to shake silently in his arms. “I won’t let go, John.” He had never been a religious man before or after Trev’s death, but, as he rolled them gently onto the bed and settled around John, he realised he was beginning to believe in miracles. He snorted at the thought and pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder, then was gingerly tracing the deep marks that zigzagged across his back, with a single finger, when the thought occurred to him that it probably was indeed a miracle that John was still alive, let alone there next to him in his bed. John turned in his arms and pulled him close, tangling their legs together, as if making sure Sherlock wouldn’t disappear. He brushed the fringe from his forehead and kissed him lightly, then whispered, “I’m not going anywhere, John. There is no other place I want to be, except here with you.” 

He felt a breath, more a sigh of relief, against his chest and then heard a mumbled out, “thank you,” as John fell asleep.

 

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Last night, I did, want -”

Sherlock glanced up from the canvas and nodded. “I did too, do, still, want to. It’s just going to take time before we figure it out. I thought - I don’t know what I thought, exactly. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to be touched by anyone. Donovan - she’s the only one who has touched me since Trev died, in any meaningful way, but I’m used to her. I didn’t truly know what it would mean, to be close to you, like we were last night. I guess you reminded me that I’m still human, and that human beings have a tendency to want other human beings, and I do know that I want you very much.”

John laughed and Sherlock blinked at him, as the brush fell from his hand. 

“No, god - I didn’t mean -”

Sherlock shook his head, then bent down to pick up the brush and dropped it back into the jar, then turned to find John standing in front of him. “I laughed because you remind me of that too, and I would very much like to try again, if -”

Sherlock laid his paint stained hands on John’s face and kissed him thoroughly, then pulled away and grinned. “I would like that very much, John.”

 

“Sherlock?” Donovan knocked on the open door, then walked inside.

“Out in a minute.”

Donovan laid the bag of fish and chips on the kitchen table, then walked over to the easel, and sat down hard on the stool in front of it. Sherlock stepped into the room and watched her study the painting for a long minute, before he cleared his throat. 

“Sherlock. He’s - stunning. I brought an extra order… damn, Sherlock, if you want me to go, if I’m interrupting something -”

“He’s not here.”

She stood up and looked at him. “But, what happened - I mean, I thought -?”

“He looked at Trev’s file, curious, I suppose; and he realised that you and he had shared a birthday and that it was today. He also very cleverly uncovered the fact that you and Trev also shared a love of Bond films, and noticed that we were missing a few dvds.” He handed her the box of movies and gently kissed her forehead. “Happy birthday, Sally Donovan. I’m starving, let’s eat.”

 

Molly looked at John sitting in their booth waiting for her, and knew at first glance that he was in love. The darkness under his eyes that had been there since, god - since the first time he returned home injured back in ninety-two, was finally beginning to fade, and he had gone to get his hair trimmed, bought a new shirt… she blinked and he was smiling at her, but hadn’t moved to get up, and she walked over to the booth and fell onto the bench across from him.

“Why are you here?” She fussed at him, then ruffled his hair, the implication clear in her question.

“He had a prior commitment, and I wanted to have dinner with you. I already ordered our regular. I’m starving.”

Molly raised an eyebrow at him and he laughed and covered his mouth. “Sorry -”

“Don’t be sorry for being happy, John. It looks good on you, sweetie.” As he blushed and looked away from her she reached out to take his hand. “It’s just been so long since I’ve heard you laugh, I mean, really laugh.” 

He glanced up at her and smiled. “I wish I could explain him to you, so that it makes sense - we make sense somehow, and I’m still trying to -”

“Sometimes, it doesn’t matter if it makes sense, John. Sometimes, it just happens, when it’s supposed to happen. Don’t overthink it, hmm?”

 

“You love him.”

“Hmm?”

“John.”

Sherlock sat up and paused the movie, then looked at her. “I don’t know, Sal, is it possible to love someone you’ve known such a short time?”

“When did you know you loved Trev, loved me?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to work it out in my head. You, the two of you were more of an extension of me, part of me. You and Trev were always there, I always knew I was cared for, needed, loved - but it’s different with him.”

“Yeah.”

“He sees something in me, knows me, accepts me in ways no one ever has before, and he trusts me to be there, knows that when I reach for him, it is from the best part of me, he already knows, Sal.”

Donovan brushed a curl from his eyes and hugged him. “It’s good, Holmes. It’s all good, sweet.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to angst... and a bit of fluff. This chapter deals with Angie, Greg's wife.

“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”  
― C.S. Lewis

 

April 6, 2005

Greg-

It was a good day today. It was sunny and warm, and we had a picnic at the park. You spent the afternoon chasing after Robbie, trying to make sure he didn’t fall over and get hurt. There will be times later in his life when he will get hurt and you won’t be able to stop it, all you will be able to do is help him through it, and love him. 

I know the time is coming when I won’t be here to help you with him. I know it more than I know anything, and I wish, I so wish things were different. But you know what? As difficult as things have been at times, I wouldn’t have missed any of it, not a single moment. Gregory Lestrade, my life became better and brighter the minute I laid eyes on you, almost nine years ago now. Do you remember that night? I’ll never forget it, you, in those biker leathers, on the hottest day in July, you swept me off my feet without a single word. Still don’t know how you managed it.

Listen to me, love, please? I know you will blame yourself when I’m gone. 

Please, don’t. 

It was not your fault, my love. I know you believe if you hadn’t been in Afghanistan, if you hadn’t been captured and tortured all those terrible months, when I didn’t know if you were alive or dead, that it would have changed how things are now. You know life doesn’t work like that. 

Do you know how happy I was when I finally got word that you and J were safe and on your way home? The day you opened your eyes and looked at me, and knew who I was, it was almost better than the day I married you.

I’m getting tired, love, and my hand isn’t as steady as it used to be. I’m leaving this letter for J to give to you. I know he will make sure you read it.

I need you to promise me something, once I’m gone, you will let someone love you and Robbie, someone who knows you, knows your goodness and your heart. I don’t think you will have to look very far. Promise me, love, you won’t give up on your heart, your dear, amazing heart.

I love you, so very much, my sweet husband, my only love -

-A

 

2.3.2010

“So, what about you?” John asked as he picked up his cup of green tea, and blew on it carefully.

“What about me?” Molly muttered at her dumpling as it slipped out of her chopsticks again.

“You and Greg.”

“You meet Mr. Right and suddenly you’re an expert?”

“Mol.”

“He’s not ready. He’s still not over Angie. I’m not her, John, she was -”

“Molly, you know she wasn’t perfect -”

“Of course I know that -”

“Are you interested in him? If you aren’t, I get it -” John picked up his chopsticks and easily picked up the errant dumpling and offered it to her.

Molly glared at him and shook her head. “We’re friends, John, just really good friends, we’re more like family. We have dinner, I help out with Robbie, you know how difficult it’s been for him. You know better than anyone -”

“Of course I do, you two are my best friends, and what’s wrong with wanting my friends to be happy?”

“Who says I’m not happy?” Molly grumbled at him and finally picked up her fork, and fiercely stabbed at the dumpling on her plate. One day she would figure out how to master chopsticks, and she would be able to wipe the smirk from her friend’s face. 

She looked up and sighed. “John. I don’t think he’s ever going to forgive himself for not being here, and not being able to take care of her the way he thinks he should have. Yeah, I love him, of course I do, but I’m afraid -” She put her fork down and stared down at her plate. “Angie was my best friend, other than you, and watching him lose her, like that, and not being able to stop it from happening, I mean, you know -”

“Yeah, Mol, I know.” John got up and walked over to her side of the table and slid in next to her, then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “I know, sweetie.”

 

7.5.1996

“So when am I ever going to meet John, Molly? I’m beginning to think he doesn’t really exist, a best friend who can’t be here on your birthday?”

Molly rolled her eyes at Angie, and yelled over the music. “You know he’s a med student, Ang - he rarely eats or sleeps, forget about having a social life, he’s lucky if he remembers - what?” She followed Angie’s gaze at the man who had just walked into the pub and nearly dropped her drink. “Damn, what the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, Molly, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna leave here tonight without him. Happy birthday, sweet.” Angie kissed her cheek and dropped a few pounds on the bar, and slid off her stool. “You know when you know…” 

And of course, less than two years later they were married, because Ang always knew what she wanted, and up until the day she got the letter informing her that her husband and his best mate were missing, life usually went according to her plans, except when it didn’t.

 

February 20, 2004,

Dear Mrs. Lestrade -

We regret to inform you, that on January 29, 2004…

 

“Molly - I need you to come over, please?”

“Ang?”

“I got a letter, and the boys have missed their skype call two weeks running, it’s happened before, but -”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Mol?” Angie opened the door and thrust the unopened letter into her hand. “Don’t read it aloud, just tell me it’s not as bad as it could be.” Molly opened it, read it through once, then twice, then took Angie by the hand and walked her over to the couch and made her sit down.

“They are missing, Ang. Sounds like they were on a convoy, and they were trapped by a freak sandstorm. They were able to find their SUV, but there was evidence -”

“Tell me, Mol?”

Molly nodded. “They believe they were captured, Ang. They are going to keep searching.”

“When? When did it happen?”

Molly scanned the letter again, and bit her lip.

“Molly?”

“They lost radio contact the day Robbie was born.”

 

2.3.2010

Molly buried her face into John’s shoulder for a moment, then pulled away, and began to play with the chopsticks on her plate. “The day she got the letter, Robbie wasn’t even a month old yet, she hadn’t been sleeping, she didn’t say a word for ten minutes, then she got up from the couch and started making phone calls, didn’t stop until Robbie woke up from his nap and she had to feed him. She put the phone in my hand, and I took over until she was finished feeding him. Until the day she knew you were safe, she never stopped making sure they were looking for you. She never cried. Not once, John. She didn’t cry until the day Greg woke up and recognised her. They weren’t sure if he was going to regain consciousness, and if he did -”

“I know, sweetie.”

“You know I don’t believe in - I’m a scientist, John, but I swear, Angie made him wake up. If anyone could have, it would have been her. And yeah, maybe, the extra stress didn’t help, but, it wasn’t his fault or your fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it would be easier if there was someone to blame. It was just one of those things that happen. You know I love him, always have, John. But sometimes, things just don’t -”

“Mol. Don’t give up on him.”

“John Watson, do not make me cry over dumplings. I’ll never forgive you.”

“Come on, let’s go to my place and binge watch that baking thing you like, hmm?”

Molly snorted and wiped her eyes. “Ice cream?”

“Of course, ice cream.” He threw some notes on the table, then helped her from the booth and into a hug. “Just give him a little more time, Mol. Yeah?”

“You know I’d wait for the rest of my life for him, John. Stupid, but, it is what it is…”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard -”

“What -”

“Of course it is what it is, if it weren’t, it would be something else.”

Molly stared at him, then burst into laughter. “Love you.”

“Love you too, sweetie. Crap telly, and Triple Chocolate Fudge Brownie, here we come.”

 

2.6.2010

“Morning, Cap.”

“Doc.” Greg looked up from his laptop and grinned. “If I didn’t know better -”

John dropped into the chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “Trying not to call it anything. But, yeah it’s -” He looked down at his hands, then glanced up to see Greg studying him. “What?”

“What d’ya think -?”

“About -?”

“If I asked Molly, to dinner, like a date or something, would it be weird? I mean -”

“No. Not weird. You won’t know unless you try.”

“It’s just, you know her so well, and -”

“Cap. Greg. Go over to Bart’s, you know you have that case to talk to her about anyway, just ask her. The worst she can say is no.”

“But, has she? I mean -”

“Sir. Go buy her a good cup of coffee and -”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I think. Go.”

“But -”

“Yer not getting any younger, mate.”

“Right. Coffee.”

“Mocha, whipped -”

“Cream and sprinkles… ta.” Greg got up from his chair and fussed with his hair.

“Cap…”

“I’m going, I’m going…”

 

“You set him up.”

“I did not.”

“You did so.” Sherlock smirked at him as the movie credits ended. He sat up and kissed him lightly, then helped him to his feet.

John leaned into him and sighed. “He asked my opinion, I gave it.”

“When did you offer to babysit?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Want to bring him over here?”

“He’s six.”

“I was six, once upon a time. We can order pizza, or whatever kids of six eat these days. Tomorrow is a Saturday, no school the next day, we’ll put on a movie for him, or I can teach him how to paint - or draw, at the very least…”

John pulled back and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “You’d do that -”

“Greg is, well, I consider Greg a friend, and I assume if we are going to continue as we are, I’m going to have to learn how to adapt, a bit, maybe even go out once in a while, and I’d love to be part of your plot -”

“My plot? Which plot would that be, exactly?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him and sighed. “To get your two best friends together, finally?”

“Oh, fine.”

“Bath?”

John started, then blinked at him, and mumbled against his shoulder, “a bath would be brilliant.” He drew back again and cleared his throat as he looked up into his eyes once more. “Sherlock, I -”

“Don’t.” He laid a finger over John’s lips and shook his head. “I know how you feel, John. And I hope you - god, I hope you know that I - just - I don’t, it’s not that I -”

John kissed his finger and nodded. “I know, I understand. But, I do, you know, in case you were wondering.”

“Yeah, me too, John, me too.” Sherlock kissed his forehead, then whispered, “do you prefer bubbles, or no bubbles?”

“Bubbles, of course.”

“A man after my own heart…”

“I thought I already had it.”

Sherlock stopped and held John’s face in his hands. “You do, John, you do, I -”

“Bath?”

“Bath.” Sherlock nodded, then took John’s hand and led him into the bathroom, then closed the door behind them.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John... fluff

“There are moments when the inner life actually 'pays,' when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use.”  
― E M Forster

 

“John?” Sherlock murmured as he threaded their fingers together once they had settled into the bath, and had been silent for what seemed like an eternity.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you ever wonder -”

“About…?”

“Why people, well, why it is that we seem to have this need or tendency to pair off, as if we had been born connected to something or someone, and lose it somewhere along the way, then have this impulse to seek for and find this missing part?”

John was silent for a moment, then studied their joined fingers and asked quietly, “do you mean do I believe in soul mates? Do I think you and I were -”

“Destined? I don’t know, but, the day in the park. I hadn’t been there in years, since the day Donovan and I scattered Trev’s ashes. That I chose that day, to do something - that led me to see you for the first time…”

“I’d seen you before.”

“You had?”

“I realised when I knew that Trevor had been pre-med, and then when I saw your paintings of him, I had seen you in the coffee shop a couple of times with him and Donovan. The three of you were distinctive, hard to forget, but I was barely existing then. I was studying like a madman, trying to get the work done. You were happy, at least, it seemed that way.”

“He was -”

“Please, tell me, I want to know.”

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“Trev was brilliant; he could have done anything, been anything he wanted to be. There was nothing he couldn’t do, well, except sing. Couldn’t do that if his life depended on it. But he just had a way of being with people. Sometimes it exhausted me just to watch him, it wasn’t a performance, it was him, how he was. He just - when he had a bad day, it wasn’t like how most people have bad days. A bad day could last a week, and Donovan and I were the only ones who could pull him back out. But he, he knew me, I never doubted that he loved me, not even when he couldn’t talk, wouldn’t do anything but sleep. I just knew that as hard as it was, he would never leave - sorry.”

“He’s why I know you -”

“Why I what?”

“You care for me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You have loved someone before. You still love him. You’re never going to not love him, because he’s part of you. And yet, I know, like how you are touching me now, how you hold me when I sleep, I know that you love me. Not in the same way, but I know, even if you can’t say the words.”

“It’s not that I -”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I do. Love is - I’ve had a long time to consider what it means, what it means to most people. I have the idea, from what I have learned about people, doing the work I do, that love is a word that snares, and traps people. And I’ve lived, well, Donovan, thinks I’ve trapped myself here, in this flat, in the way I live, I essentially all but trapped her here too. When I lost Trev, the way I did, the way we did. I didn’t - I hadn’t ever told him. We didn’t use words that way, I mean, he told me once, and then we didn’t speak of it again. I didn’t tell him, until he was dying, John. I couldn’t let him go without telling him. He knew, he had always known, but, I don’t want to use words to keep you here. I don’t know if that makes sense?”

“Yeah, it does. You know I’m here because I want to be, right?”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder, then rested his head on it. “I do. It’s just if you ever change your mind, or, I don’t know, I want you to know -”

“Let’s not worry about later, hmm? I’ve spent too much of my life trying to fix the past, and the future? There were times when I didn’t think I would have one, so can we just be here, now? And not think any more? Please?”

“As you wish, John.”

“You do know…”

“Of course, I have seen it, hmmm… twenty times, no, twenty-one.”

“Care to make it twenty-two when we get out of the bath?”

“As long as you don’t mind…”

“You’re one of those people.”

“One of what people?”

“You talk along with the movie.”

“On occasion…”

“I knew there had to be something wrong with you…”

Sherlock grinned against his back then sat up and drew a heart lightly over his scars. 

“You are a romantic, Sherlock Holmes.” John leaned his head back and Sherlock sighed against his lips.

“Guilty, as charged.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Angie... Greg finally asks Molly out with some help.

“Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”  
― Maya Angelou

 

 

2.06.10

Greg closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall next to the doors that led to the morgue and made himself calm down. He had faced death, more than once, and was still here, this was just asking a friend, no, Molly had been more than a friend for years now, something he couldn’t quite define ever since -

“What are you waiting for?”

“Ang -”

“It’s just Molly.”

“I know it’s Molly. It’s just been a long time since I had to ask anyone -”

“You never had to ask anyone before.”

“I asked you -”

“Did not, I did all the asking if you recall, Gregory Lestrade. If I hadn’t asked if I could buy you a drink that first night, and proposed when I did -”

“Right.”

“Get in there before the whipped cream melts.”

“Ang -”

“Go on, now, before someone catches you talking to yourself.”

 

 

“Morning, Molly.”

“Hey, Greg. Bright and early this morning. Oh, right, you wanted that autopsy - mocha?”

“I, uhm -”

Molly grinned at him and took the offered coffee. “Whipped cream and sprinkles? Must be a heckuva favour you want to ask.”

“Not a favour precisely…”

“No?” She sighed as she took a sip of the drink, then looked up at him. “Greg?”

“Wondering if you had plans tomorrow night?”

“Need me to watch Robbie? Always happy to, you know that, no need to bribe me with mocha -”

Greg shook his head. “No, it’s, sorry - I’d like to take you to dinner, out to dinner, if you weren’t busy.”

“You mean, like a date?”

“Right, like a date.”

“Fancy or casual?”

Greg blinked at her. “Huh?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to overdress if we are just getting fish and chips-”

“Not fish and chips.”

“So fancier than fish and chips…”

“To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far, wasn’t sure -” He studied the tips of his shoes and wished he’d bought himself a coffee just so he had something to do with his hands, so she wouldn’t be able to tell how nervous he was at that moment.

Molly put the mocha down and took his hands in hers. “It’s okay, Greg. I know how hard it was for you to ask me. Yes, I’d love to go to dinner with you, it doesn’t matter where, even fish and chips -”

He lifted his eyes and looked at her, and shook his head again. “I’m an idiot. I’m a detective, and a decent one at that, how - how did I miss it?”

“It’s okay, you -”

“I -”

Molly let go of his hands and wrapped her arms around him gently. “Shhh. Just breathe. It’s alright. I do know CPR, was trained to do it, though I’m a bit out of practice, as most of my clientele…”

Greg laughed, then rested his chin on her head, and let his arms fold around her, and finally pulling her closer, let out a sigh of relief as he felt her settle against his chest. “Sorry it took me so long.”

 

 

“Wasn’t so hard, now was it?” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had to figure it out on your own, love. I did leave you a hint in my note, I never wanted you to grieve so long, Greg, you just had to find your way there. I knew she would wait for you, I told her to be patient -”

“You knew.”

“Course I did, you didn’t marry an idiot, love. I asked her to keep an eye on my boys for me when I was gone, all of my boys, you and Robbie and J, just be good to her, Greg, love her, let her know you love her, and don’t ever take her for granted, yeah?”

“I won’t Ang. I promise.”

 

 

“So?”

“Hmmm?”

“Mocha work?”

“Yeah, Doc, mocha worked like a charm.” He blinked at John who was watching him from across his desk and sighed, then rolled his eyes. “You set me up…”

“Nah…”

“Doc.”

“Just gave you a gentle nudge in the right direction. You two are the best people I know, and I just wanted. Damn, Greg, you and I both know, we see it every day, doing what we do; how life changes so fast, what we saw in Afghanistan, and Ang - she - the last thing she said to me -”

“John.”

“She wanted me to make sure you were happy, Greg. You know if there had been a way for her to beat it, she would have, she would have done it just for you. She was crazy about you. And I know how it broke you, when she died, but you have the best parts of her in Robbie, and Molly- she wants all of it, she knows what you’ve been through, and I know how much she loves you. Just one thing -”

“What?”

“You hurt her, and I’ll kill ya.” John grinned at his friend, got up from the chair and and nodded at him. “I’ll pick up Robbie at 7 tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks, Doc.”

“Anytime, Cap.”

 

 

“Don’t fuck this up.”

“Language, still?” Greg muttered at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.

“Just be happy, Greg; not for J, or Robbie, or even me. Be happy for you, find that joy you used to have, it’s still in you, my sweet man. It’s what I fell in love with, well, that, and those dark brown eyes of yers. Love her, and let her love you, especially on those days when you don’t feel so lovable.”

“I love you, always will, Ang.”

“I know, sweetie, I know. It’s time to let me go and love her, it’s time.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Donovan... then Donovan and Sherlock

“We are not trapped or locked up in these bones. No, no. We are free to change. And love changes us. And if we can love one another, we can break open the sky.”  
― Walter Mosley

 

Donovan knocked on the door and was surprised, though not too surprised when John opened it for her.

“Oh, hey, uhm -”

“John, please, call me John.”

“Right. Sherlock -?”

“Still in bed. I have to work a few hours this morning -”

“Thank you, for the Bond movies, and the time, it was kind of you.”

“Not at all. I know it must seem strange to you - me, here, all of a sudden. Sorry, please come in, there’s coffee, if you want some. Not sure how you take it. Please, sit.”

“Black is fine, thanks.” She watched as John strode into the kitchen and she walked over to the easel and sat down as she always had. “He - his work, since you’ve, since he’s met you, it’s -”

“Different, I know.” John blushed as he handed her a mug of coffee.

“No, well, yes. He’s more, well, free. The colours are brighter, he had always used bright colours in the past, but -”

John went over to the couch and sat down. He studied the woman who was struggling with her words, and knew she was rarely afraid to speak her mind. Suddenly, she turned and fixed her gaze on him. “He’s in love with you. I mean, you know that, right?”

John nodded.

“Good. I mean, it is good. Listen, what I said before, when I visited you at work. I know it’s none of my business.”

“Course it is. He’s your family. You want to know my intentions.”

Donovan laughed, then shrugged. “Okay, yeah. I’d like to know -”

“This isn’t a fling for me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Tonight, I’m picking up Greg’s son Robbie and I’m bringing him over here to babysit, so Greg can go on a date.”

Donovan nearly choked on her coffee. “And how old is Robbie?”

“Six.” He watched her face change slightly, then added, “it was at Sherlock’s suggestion.”

“Sherlock is going to help babysit a six year old?” Donovan whispered, then tried to hold in a giggle, and failed.

John nodded and grinned at her as he headed for his coat and the door. “I have to go, I’m sure he’ll be up in a little while, I walked Vi already. See you later, yeah?”

“Thanks, John.”

John smiled at her again as their eyes met, knowing it wasn’t just for the coffee, then slipped quietly out the door and down the stairs.

 

“Morning. John gave you coffee, then.” Donovan glanced up from her phone to see Sherlock dressed as if to go out, save for his boots and coat.

“Yeah, he did. He told me he already walked Vi.”

“I know, right. Good. Listen, Sal, if you’re not busy this morning, can you go with me to an art supply store, not even sure which ones are still around these days, have to get child appropriate supplies, crayons, maybe pencils, a sketch pad, or two, no colouring books, not until I see what skill sets the boy already possesses… Sal?”

Donovan blinked at him, then cleared her throat and tried to get control over her voice. “Sorry. You want to go with me?”

“Well, I have an idea that I want to try, I need to buy acrylics and glazes, and gels, a new palette and it means new brushes and you know how I am about my brushes, I haven’t replaced any of mine, in well - “

“Nearly twenty years.”

Sherlock nodded. “Right. Can you? I mean, if you are busy, I understand.”

“No, right, yeah, of course, I’ll go with you.”

“I want to surprise him.”

“John. This is about John.” Sally groaned and crossed her arms at him.

“Yeah. I’m afraid, he might think -”

“He -” She bit her lip as he narrowed his eyes at her.

“He what?”

“I wouldn’t worry about him.”

Sherlock straightened up and continued to glare. “Donovan.”

“He loves you.”

“He told you that?”

“Didn’t have to.”

“I don’t want him to think that life in this flat is all I have to offer him, Sal, I need to be able to -”

“Did he do or say anything to make you feel that way?”

“No. It’s just I don’t want him to think I’m broken, or -”

“Sherlock.”

“I don’t want him to feel like he’s missing anything because of me, and I need to do this, Donovan, for me. I need to know if I can do this, for me, if you can’t do it today, I understand.”

“Sweetie. I already said I would. I don’t think you understand, how big a step this is for you. We could go online like we usually do -”

“No, no time, I need to start it today, Sal. It’s something-” Sally got up from the stool and walked over to him. “It’s something I need to do, Donovan.”

“Well, then, Holmes, let’s do it then, hmm?”

 

“Oh my god, Sal -”

“Yeah.”

“It’s -”

“Breathe.”

“I am, it’s -”

“Crayons? You wanted to get crayons, a sketch pad -”

“Right.” Sherlock took a deep breath in, then let it out again and removed his gloves. “Crayons.”

Donovan tried not to smile as Sherlock more or less spun through the aisles, filling the cart as he went. She nearly pulled out her camera to take a few snaps, as no one who knew him would believe it if there wasn’t evidence, and even then, they would accuse her of photoshopping, but stopped herself.

“Sal!”

“Right, I’m coming.”

 

“It’s a good thing they deliver, I wasn’t sure how we were going to get all that back to the flat, is there even room for everything?”

“Of course, and I can always store stuff in 221C -” Sherlock glanced down at her and smiled. “Thank you for -”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wish Trev could have seen you today.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and she laid a hand on his face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“No, it’s okay, Sal, I wish he could have been here too. Do you think, do you think he knows -”

“That you’re happy?”

Sherlock nodded at her and waited, then glanced up at the sky, as it began to snow again.

“Yeah, Sherlock, I think he knows, love, and if I know him, he’s probably throwing a party up there right now.”

“You think so?” Sherlock took her arm and she squeezed his arm lightly.

“I know so.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Molly's first date...

The moment we begin to seek love, love begins to seek us. And to save us.”  
― Paulo Coelho

 

Ridiculous. It’s just Greg. He’s seen everything I own. Molly sighed at the pile of discarded outfits that she had tossed on the bed. “It’s just dinner. You’ve had dinner with him at least, what, a hundred times, more, probably, closer to two hundred? Okay, yeah, for the last four years it’s usually included fish fingers, or egg and chips, but, still. What are we going to talk about? Work? Oh, right, ‘Molly, so how is your latest corpse?’ ‘Oh, he’s great, manual strangulation, thank you for asking, how is your steak?’ What was I thinking? That you’re in love with him, possibly, a little?”

Oh, right, there’s that. And now you are answering yourself. Yeah, clear sign of sanity. And John, the arse, he had set her up, set them both up. At the moment, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to kill him or -

“Mol?” At the moment, what she was certain of was that she definitely regretted giving him a copy of her flat keys years ago, how long ago was it now?

“John! I swear I am going to get those locks changed! It’s less than an hour before he picks me up, and I don’t have any idea what to wear. I don’t even know where he’s taking me. How could you do this to me?”

“Do what?” He walked into her bedroom and crossed his arms at her. “He asked my opinion and I gave it, that’s all. He already knew the way to your heart before nine in the morning was a mocha with all the trimmings.”

“Why am I nervous?”

“Because tonight he’s going to look at you differently than he ever has before.”

Molly turned and glared at him. “Not helping. You look good. He’s been making sure you eat.”

John snorted and shook his head. “Actually, just the opposite.”

“John.”

“Sorry.” He grinned at her, then pulled a dress from her closet and handed it to her. “Your favorite dress. It’s comfortable. The colour suits you.”

“Since when did you become a colour expert?” She growled at him, but took it from him and sighed. “Hate it when you’re right.”

He kissed her forehead and waited for her to smile back at him. “You’re friends, you’ll be fine. I have to go pick up something to cook for Robbie, then pick him up and take him over to Sherlock’s. It’s Greg, Mol. You know each other so well, already -”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, what are we going to talk about?”

“About whatever you were afraid to tell him before.”

Molly leaned against his shoulder and shook her head.

“Molly. It’s never been hard for you to talk to him before.”

“I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, of scaring him off, ruining everything. We’re friends, really good friends, what if I mess it up -.”

“What do you want, Molly Hooper?”

“God, John -”

“Yeah, I know, sweetie. Just be your brilliant, smart-arse self, and you’ll be fine.”

Molly laughed into his shoulder and muttered, “you always did know how to charm a girl…”

“There she is. Get dressed and have fun tonight.” He kissed her forehead again, and winked at her as he walked out of the bedroom, then out of her flat.

 

“Robbie, Doc’s here!” Greg bellowed up the stairs as he let John into the flat. “You’re sure you and Sherlock -”

“We’ll be fine, I’m making him egg and chips, and I got those biscuits he likes. Breathe, Cap.”

“What if-?”

“Cap. You survived two tours in Afghanistan, and raised a child mostly single-handed for the last four years. It’s just dinner.”

Greg nodded and stood up a bit straighter. “Right. Just dinner.”

“You look sharp.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Cap. No worries. Robbie, let’s go, yeah?”

“Your flat, Uncle Doc?”

“Nope, tonight, we’re going to go visit an artist friend of mine, he’s cool. You’ll like him.”

“Cool, can I play with his paints?”

John laughed, “probably not, but I think he was going to get you some of your own art supplies.”

“Really?”

“Really, truly. Ready?”

“Ready! Bye, Papa!”

“Bye, Robbie. Doc -”

“Have fun, Cap. Just dinner.”

Greg nodded as John grinned at him and pulled the door closed. “Just dinner.”

 

“Sherlock?”

“Be down in a second.” Sherlock’s muffled voice floated down from his upstairs studio.

John watched as Robbie spun in a circle, looking around the flat. “Wow, Uncle Doc, so many books! I’ve never seen this many books and stuff. And he has like every movie, ever!”

“Pretty close. Let’s put the groceries, away, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay. Egg and chips?”

“Of course, egg and chips. I also got you chocolate milk, and those biscuits. I happen to know Sherlock, my friend, is fond of them, too.”

“Sherlock? What an awesome name!”

“Yeah.” John turned from the fridge to see Sherlock standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

“So, you must be the famous Robbie I’ve heard so much about.”

“You’re an artist!”

Sherlock nodded at him and held out his hand. “Sherlock Holmes, at your service, Robbie. Now, while Doc here is making dinner, we can put on a movie, or I just happen to have a set of crayons, or if you prefer markers or pencils, I wasn’t sure, so I got a bit of everything.”

John looked up from making the chips and met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock offered him a lopsided smile and returned his attention to Robbie.

“Markers?”

“Markers it is. I thought the coffee table would be acceptable, and I thought if we are going to make a habit of this, that it would be important that you have your own sketchbook.”

“My own?”

“Your very own. I figured since your father is a smart guy, you’d -”

“You know my Papa?”

“I do, have known him a long time. He’s an excellent policeman.”

“Yeah, he is. He tries really hard to get the bad guys.”

Sherlock pulled out the box of supplies from under the coffee table and presented it to the boy.

“This is for me?”

“It is, even just starting out, it’s important for an artist to have the right supplies, the good stuff.”

“How did you know I wanted to be an artist?”

“Doc told me, he’s a smart guy too.”

“Yeah, Uncle Doc is the best.”

Sherlock glanced up in John’s direction and winked at him. “Yes, Robbie he is. Now, let me show you everything that’s in here.”

 

“Hi.”

“You’re three minutes early,” Molly said as she opened the door and invited him in, then closed the door again.

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be. Are you sure you don’t just want to stay in? I can make something, or we could get some take-away?”

“No. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to take you out and have a real grown-up dinner? Angelo’s okay?”

Molly let out a sigh of relief. “Of course, let me just get my coat - what is it?”

“I hadn’t noticed before -”

“What?”

“Your eyes. Sorry, if I was staring, they look golden in this light -”

“Greg, are you hungry?”

“Yes… hmm… no. Actually, had a late lunch. You?”

She shook her head, and found herself mesmerised by his lips.

“Good. Sorry. It’s been a long time, Molly. I didn’t plan, I -”

“Will you just kiss me, please?”

Greg nodded and gently pushed his fingers into Molly’s hair and they both let out a sigh. “Molly -” Greg whispered.

“Yeah, I know, Greg, I know.” She pushed his jacket from his shoulders and felt him tremble, under her fingers. “It’s me, it’s just me, sweetie.”

“You’ve never been ‘just’ anything, Molly. You -”

Molly began to undo his tie and he stopped speaking; then her fingers were on the buttons of his shirt and he laid a hand over hers. “Molly -”

“It’s okay, love. I know. You have nothing you have to hide from me, Greg, I remember. God, I remember when you came home.” Molly stopped unbuttoning his shirt and reached up to lay her hand on his cheek, then standing on tiptoe, brushed her lips gently over his, and watched his eyes close. “I love you, Greg Lestrade.”

“Molly -” Greg nodded and gently lifted her into his arms, then gazed into her eyes that were beginning to glisten with tears. “I love you, too, Molly Hooper. How long do you think we have?”

“Dinner? Dinner can last for a good two hours, give or take an hour?”

“Right. God - you’re beautiful.”

“Greg -”

“Right. We’re past the flirting state, aren’t we?”

“Long time ago.”

Greg smiled down at her and she lifted her hand to his cheek to wipe a single tear away, then pulled him into another kiss and he let out a groan. “Molly - you have witchcraft in your lips….”

Molly laughed and leaned into his chest. “Oh, god - I do love you. Take me to bed or lose me forever, you big stud!”

“Top Gun, really?”

Molly snorted, and he rolled his eyes.

“And she snorts… John… what have you got me into?”

 

“So… how do you think they’re doing?” Sherlock asked quietly as he covered Robbie with a quilt as he slept on the couch.

“Hmm, either they are lingering over coffee, or they are exchanging movie quotations…”

“Movie - oh. John. And of course you knew this about the two of them -”

“They aren’t my best friends without a reason, you know.” John grinned at him and looked into his eyes. “You left the flat to go out to buy Robbie’s art supplies with Donovan today. You know, don’t you, that you don’t have to prove anything to me, right? We are - you are the best thing to ever happen to me, and I don’t ever want you to feel like you -”

“I was going to wait to show you, it’s a work in progress, but I want you to see the other reason I went out today. It was for you, but I did it for me too -” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and led him up the stairs and into his studio. “Close your eyes, John?”

“Eyes are closed.”

“I - I hope - I went to the store because I needed to buy new paints that wouldn’t take months to dry, that I could easily add texture to. It’s just a first layer John, but -” 

He laid John’s fingers over the painting and heard him draw in a sharp breath, then watched as John’s fingers traveled over the canvas. “It’s me - it’s -” John opened his eyes and let out a quiet gasp. “I never knew, of course I never knew what it felt like - Sherlock.”

“It will take me weeks to get it right - it’s too much, you’ll tell me-”

John turned in his arms and shuddered against him. “It’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me, Sherlock. Thank you, you brilliant, lovely man.”

Sherlock kissed his forehead lightly and held him tightly in his arms until they heard a gentle tap on the door downstairs.


	24. Chapter 24

“The most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend.”  
― Henry David Thoreau

 

Molly turned as John and Sherlock made their way quietly down the stairs. She glanced at John and knew something had just happened between them; as even in the near darkness of the flat, she saw something that she had never seen before, a certain peace -

Greg interrupted her train of thought as he picked Robbie up from the couch and put him over his shoulder, then nodded his thanks to them, and took her hand. She shrugged at John, but offered him a slight smile, knowing he would understand, then followed Greg out the door, closing it behind her.

 

2.09.10

“Hullo?” Molly knocked on the door that was slightly ajar and heard a voice call out, “Enter! Down in a moment -”

Molly walked into the flat she had only seen in the darkness a couple of nights ago and closed her eyes, then opened them again and took it all in. The only nods to modernity were the large screen telly on a wall, and a DVD player that was obviously well-used given the collection of movies that covered a large area of the bookshelves which covered the walls of the sitting room.

“Ms. Hooper?”

“Sorry - we didn’t get properly introduced the other night.” She offered him her hand, but withdrew it as he showed her his hands, covered in paint.

“Acrylic has its benefits, but dries a bit faster than I’m accustomed to, I just had to finish a thought, you might say. It’s early, have you had tea, or coffee -”

Molly nodded. “I’m fine, thanks.”

“Please, sit. I’m - no, you already know, as I’m sure John has told you my name. Ask away.”

“What - no -”

“Ms. Hooper. I know you’ve been best mates with him since the age of ten; I know - sorry. I have a tendency to let people know what I already know, saves embarrassment at times. In this case, I apologise, go ahead and ask whatever you need to know.”

She nodded and removed her gloves. “The first I heard of you wasn’t about you directly, it concerned the letter you had written, a love letter for someone else.” Sherlock nodded as he sat on his chair and waited for her to go on. “I hadn’t ever seen him so animated about anything, he had barely slept for weeks, and he was manic, absolutely needed to know who had written the letter. Usually he tells me everything, but he had kept it from me for over two weeks. He had turned it into a case, but it was more than that, it was a mission for him to discover who you were. The cases that he works on with Greg, DI Lestrade, he never gets attached, he leaves the motivations of the why to other people, his job is simply to examine the evidence -”

“But he had become obsessed with finding the answer, with closing the case, you might say?” Sherlock suggested quietly.

“Yes, eventually after we determined what paint was on the paper, he knew there was nothing else he could do, so let it go. Then in July, at the park, he saw you, you saw him - not that he knew it was you, but -”

Sherlock nodded.

“Just a few days ago, frankly, it feels like it’s been months already, he finally met you -”

“Feels like minutes to me.” Sherlock muttered under his breath, and she blinked at him. “I don’t know you, except for the fact that two men I admire very much and hold in high regard, have, at the very least, affection, for you, and trust you implicitly. I hope I am not making an error in judgment - it rarely happens, but -”

Molly raised an eyebrow at him, but bowed her head, and listened. 

“Please come upstairs, I believe you need to see something so you fully understand.” He got to his feet and began walking towards the staircase, obviously expecting her to follow.

He pushed open the door to the studio and stepped aside to let her in. “I have painted the portraits of four people in my life; one was my brother, who I no longer choose to associate with for reasons that don’t concern you; another was my best friend since the age of three and my lover from the age of seventeen until his death at twenty, and the third is my other best friend from childhood who has allowed me to function as well as I have since my partner’s death. The fourth, as you can see, is John. The smaller sketches, or studies you see there, are from the glimpse I had of him in the park, a bit fuzzy, but it was just a moment. A few others are from that disaster of a press conference in December, I did call in a few favours to get my brother to send me a recording of it so I could attempt to improve on my impression of your friend.”

“And this?” Molly walked slowly over to the nearly life-sized canvas that he had obviously been working on when she interrupted him.

“I wanted him to see his scars, not necessarily as damage - I’m not sure if you - this section is dry here, if you wish to feel it -” Sherlock carefully took her hand and lifted it to the canvas, pressing it lightly over the raised areas. “He had never really seen or ever, for obvious reasons, known what his skin felt like, what it feels like to me - I’m not sure if -” 

Molly let her fingers travel cautiously over the paint, and suddenly understanding, pulled her hand away. “This is what he had seen the other night, when we came to pick up Robbie, you had just shown him this, or what you had done before -”

Sherlock nodded. “If you consider that John had become obsessed about finding me, I think you now recognise that the sentiment is clearly shared, Ms. Hooper?”

“Please, call me Molly.” She offered him her hand and grinned as he picked up a clean rag and dropped it over his hand, then took her hand in his, and bowed to her. 

“Sherlock.”

“I apologise, Sherlock.”

“No need. I am glad that John engenders such fierce loyalty from his friends. Please know that -”

“No, I can tell. I do know love when I see it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked into her warm brown eyes and smiled. “Yes, Molly, I think you do.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just some fluff...

“True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.”   
― Erich Segal

 

Molly blinked as she checked the time on the morgue clock. Seven o’clock, already. How long had she just been standing there, thinking, no, not thinking, exactly. She put a finger to her lips, recalling how Greg had kissed her as she reached for the door handle three days earlier when he had dropped her at home after they had picked up Robbie from Sherlock’s flat. It wasn’t earth-shattering or overly heated; it had been gentle, sweet, and yet she seemed to feel it still vibrating through her. 

She hadn’t known or really considered how she would feel if he had ever known, if she had ever told him how she felt about him and he had let her know he felt the same, but it certainly hadn’t been this feeling of complete calm. She had thought, if she thought about it at all, that it would have broken her, changed her somehow at some basic level. Instead, she seemed to move more easily through the world, the only differences were that she was now seen, known in a way she never thought she would ever be. 

Yes, John had known her for most of her life and she knew he loved her, as a friend, like family, but this? The way Greg had looked at her when he knew that she loved him, it was as if he was relearning her, seeing her for the first time, not as Angie’s best friend, not as the person he counted on when he needed someone to watch Robbie, but just her…

“Hey.”

She started as Greg was standing in front of her, grinning at her.

“How long -?”

“Just a minute or so. I, uhm, it may have been a bit presumptuous of me, but I asked John if he wouldn’t mind watching Robbie tonight. I thought we might get that dinner I promised you?” He looked away shyly and cleared his throat. “If you have other plans, I understand.”

“No, I’d love to. I just need to -”

“What is it?”

“Sorry, I’m just getting used to being able to look at you.”

Greg glanced back down at her and nodded. “Yeah, me too.” They stood there for a long moment just looking at each other before Molly giggled and leaned into him, as he slowly wrapped his arms around her, and pressed a kiss into her hair.

“Dinner?”

“Yeah, I’m actually starving, I think I forgot to eat today.”

“You’re not sure?” Greg asked, a smile in his voice.

She looked up at him and shook her head. “I was a bit distracted, thinking about other things, one thing in particular.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Uhmhmmm.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed. She started as she couldn’t remember the last time he had truly laughed like that, and he blinked at her.

“Sorry - I - you, just - I’ve been walking around like - I thought it would feel different, this, you, me? With -” He shook his head and turned away.

She reached up and laid her hand on his face, encouraging him to look at her. “No. Tell me, it’s okay, please?”

Greg sighed and met her eyes, then nodded. “With Angie, it was fireworks, my heart raced - with you, it’s like I’m walking on clouds… and I can’t stop smiling. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do. I had thought if you ever knew, if I had ever told you, that it would change me, everything about me, but it didn’t it hasn’t - I’m still me, and now -”

“Now?”

“You see me, and know, and it’s -”

“Absolutely breathtaking?”

Molly nodded as he drew her into a softly persuasive kiss, then pulled back and whispered, “dinner?”

“Please?”

 

John watched as Sherlock sat quietly next to Robbie on the couch as they worked on putting together a Lego set; it had been a birthday present that Greg hadn’t gotten around to building with him yet. At first they had started following the directions, then Robbie sighed and Sherlock had grumbled under his breath. “Boring.”

“Yeah.” Robbie sat back and crossed his arms.

“Shall we start over?”

Robbie stared at him. “Can we?”

“Of course we can. There are no Lego police.” 

Robbie laughed. “Lego police?”

“You know, someone who watches over us, like your Uncle Doc is doing, but making sure we follow the directions. No one is going to take our Lego license away.” Sherlock caught John’s eye for a brief moment, then looked over at Robbie, who was focused on taking the building apart. “What shall we build instead?”

“Spaceship! Can we build a spaceship?”

“Of course we can.”

John glanced down at his most recent forensics journal that he was supposed to be reading, and tried to find where he had left off.

“We could use your help, John.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled from across the room.

“Yeah, Uncle Doc, please? You can read that boring stuff later.” Robbie grinned over at him and John rolled his eyes, but tossed it aside, then crossed the room and as he sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, he was startled, not for the first time that evening, by the love he saw there in Sherlock’s eyes. If they had been alone, he would have said something, or reached for his hand and taken him to bed, but he contented himself by handing over the red blocks that Sherlock had requested, and seeing the slight smile dance over his lips, knowing he knew exactly what John was thinking sent a shiver through him. He was still surprised how much it meant to him to have someone know him so thoroughly, and yet -

“What did you want to be when you were growing up, John?”

“Yeah, Uncle Doc, I want to be someone who builds things -”

“An engineer?” Sherlock suggested.

“I don’t know, they usually need to know maths.” Robbie shrugged. “I just want to be someone who actually builds things, you know, like bridges and skyscrapers.”

“Sounds dangerous,” John said quietly.

Robbie nodded. “But things need to be built, and I like being outside, not stuck inside -”

“I wanted to be a footballer.” John admitted with a smirk.

“You can make a living doing that, Uncle Doc?”

“Oh, yeah, Robbie, a good one, if you are good enough. They told me I wasn’t tall enough.”

“But you’re so tall, Uncle Doc.”

“I wasn’t then -” He shot a glance over at Sherlock who was studying him in silence.

“Sorry, Uncle Doc.”

“No worries, kiddo, if I had been the right size, I might not have met you, and -”

Robbie looked up at him and smiled, then asked, “can we have more biscuits, Uncle Doc?”

John grinned at him and nodded. “Of course, be right back.” He picked up the empty plate and carried it into the kitchen. As he was reaching for the new packet of biscuits he felt Sherlock’s presence behind him.

“You’re the perfect size, John. Those kids were morons -”

“Sherlock!!! Come see what I made -” Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s shoulder, then grabbed the bag of biscuits from his hand, as he rumbled back, “be right there, Robbie.” And then he was gone.

John closed his eyes and heard Sherlock say something to Robbie, then Robbie laughed, and as John began to walk back in the room, he stopped, suddenly recognising the fact that he was actually happy. But, it was more than happiness, he was content for the first time in his life, and he wondered when it had happened.

“Uncle Doc, see what we made!”

“Yeah, Robbie, be there in a minute. Just turning on the kettle.”

 

“What do you want to do for your birthday?”

“Hmmm?”

“It’s your fortieth in a few weeks. We should do something special, like go out or something.” Sherlock suggested as he rinsed the shampoo from John’s hair.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know -”

“I have my ways…”

“No party.”

“No party. Got it.” Sherlock breathed against his back and didn’t say a word.

“A few years ago, Molly threw me a surprise party.”

“Ah.”

“No, it was fine -”

Sherlock waited for him to finish.

“It just, reminds me of things -” He closed his mouth and leaned his forehead against the wall. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and held him as he turned off the water and helped him out of the tub, then towel dried him off and led him to the bedroom. “How do you know - you always seem to know when I just can’t talk about what happened to me, you never push, you let it be. Maybe one day -”

“You never have to tell me anything, John. But know, right now, that no matter what you tell me, it will never change how I feel about you -”

John turned in his arms and shook his head. “You can’t know that -”

Sherlock kissed his forehead then helped him into bed and slowly went to his knees next to him. “I can and I do. I know you, I know your heart, John Watson, and that’s all I need to know.”

John blinked at him then reached out to touch his face. “I don’t know what I did to deserve -”

“You exist, John. That’s all you had to do.”

“Come to bed?”

Sherlock kissed his nose and nodded. “Just a bit of work to do; I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

“Don’t be long?”

“I won’t, I promise.” Sherlock sat on the floor until John’s eyes closed and he slowly drifted off to sleep. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” John mumbled back, then rolled over and snored.

Sherlock covered his mouth as he laughed, then slowly got to his feet, grabbed his smock from the hook on the back of the door and walked silently up the stairs to his studio, closing the door behind him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day...

“...And everything depends upon how near you sleep to me.” - Leonard Cohen

 

Greg opened his eyes on Valentine’s Day to find Molly already awake, and smiling at him. Robbie was staying at his Nana’s, so they didn’t have to actually do anything, but he had plans, big romantic plans which ended the moment she whispered into his chest, “can we just stay here, all day and do nothing, but be here, or would that be disrupting a master plan?” 

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing in her scent, and as he felt her arms wrap around him, pulling him improbably closer to her, he found that was all he wanted to do, not move from where she was for the rest of his life. 

 

John opened the door to the flat and stopped short as he saw Sherlock standing at the window. There were words he thought of, written by past poets to their long dead lovers, but knew they weren’t the words to speak to the man who stood there. Instead, he silently moved across the room, shedding his clothing as he went until he stood behind him, then pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades and felt him shiver as he slipped his arms around him and held on tightly. 

“I missed you today. I knew you would be back, but I still missed you, such an odd sensation. I couldn’t paint, or write, think, could barely breathe as I thought of every single thing that could stop you from coming back here. To be honest, I had forgotten what it was like to care enough about someone to miss them.”

John spun Sherlock in his arms, then cradled his face in his hands, and gazed up into his eyes, knowing he didn’t have the words that could convince him of his permanence, because he knew all too well how temporary everything was, all he could do was let him know he was there now. He kissed him slowly, patiently, tenderly until he felt him melt into him, then draw back slightly, as he lifted his hand and placed a shaking finger on his lips. “I’m sorry, John.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” John whispered back. “You do know, if I have any say in the matter, I will always come home to you.”

“Home?” 

“Didn’t you know that you are my home? You have been ever since - I don’t even know honestly, maybe even before I even knew your name, ridiculous as that sounds.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head at him and took his hand. “It’s not ridiculous.” John watched as he closed his eyes tightly and slowly leaned against his shoulder. “God. I’m exhausted, can you, we -”

“Of course.” He kissed his hair, then half carried him to bed, and mumbled into the darkness as they fell asleep entangled together, “happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”


	27. Chapter 27

“...the world is not a pleasant place to be without someone to hold and be held by.”  
― Nikki Giovanni

 

3.15.2010

John rubbed his eyes as he opened the door of the flat. “Donovan? He’s working, I can get him for you, but you know how he gets, and with the acrylics -”

She stepped into the sitting room and dropped onto the couch without removing her coat or snow covered boots. “It’s you I wanted to talk to, if you don’t mind?” She looked up shyly at him and he knew it didn’t have anything to do with his relationship with Sherlock.

“I don’t mind at all, tea? Or something a bit stronger?”

“Please.”

John poured them both a double, then sat in front of her on the coffee table, and waited.

“It’s about Julian -”

“Julian?”

“I broke up with him last year. On the anniversary, of -”

“Right.” He took a sip of his drink and studied her carefully.

“He rang me back, a couple of months ago, and he asked if he could take me to coffee, no strings, and I agreed to see him. And it was good, and we talked, and it’s... good.”

“That’s good, right?” John asked carefully trying not to smile.

“It’s better than good. He’s asked me to go on holiday with him, for a week, and I’m thinking about saying yes. Sherlock is doing really well, he’s spending more time at Speedy’s, and he went out with you to Angelo’s last week. I’m just - it’s -”

“You’re afraid if you go out of town, aren’t available to him -”

Donovan nodded and drank down half her scotch. “I don’t want him to -”

“Go.”

“John-”

“Donovan. He’s never wanted to stop you from having a life. If you want to go away on holiday with Julian, go. If you don’t want to, don’t, but don’t use him as an excuse -”

“I don’t do th-” Donovan muttered into her drink, then sighed and put it down on the coffee table.

John raised an eyebrow at her and crossed his arms. “I know how much you must have given up to care for him all these years in the way that you do, and he knows it, too. If you asked him, you know what he would say.”

“I know. He would want me to go.” She ran her fingers through her hair as she got to her feet and began to pace around the room. 

“Sometimes, it’s easier. I can, as you said, use him as an excuse, if I don’t want to continue a relationship, they learn, usually sooner than later that he is more important to me than anyone else, and they choose to walk away, nobody gets hurt. 

I - sometimes he’s a crutch for me, as much as I’ve ever been for him; I know he’s always here, for me, no matter what, loves me, no matter what. I don’t have to be anyone but who I am with him because he knows me better than anyone else. Usually, if I start seeing someone, I try to be someone else, because it’s easier than trying to explain everything, without it turning into a badly written soap opera, but with Julian…”

“It’s different this time?” John asked quietly.

“Yeah, I was getting tired of trying to be someone I wasn’t. I told him from the beginning about Trev, and Sherlock, and he understood, and that was great, and then he just stayed, which I wasn’t used to. Then last year, on the anniversary of Trev’s death, he told me he loved me. And I flipped out, and broke up with him. It made sense at the time. But after a while I started missing him, but didn’t know how to tell him I wanted another chance. I didn’t date anyone, I redecorated my flat, took yoga classes, tai chi, basket weaving... the odd client, and believe me we had some odd ones, before we met you.” 

She glanced over at John and realised he was smiling at her, then she walked back over to the coffee table and tossed back the rest of her drink and dropped onto the couch.

“So…” 

“Soooo... like I said, a couple of months ago, he just called me out of the blue for coffee, and it’s all -”

“Good?”

“Yeah.” Donovan smiled back at him, then picked up her bag and walked over to him, and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, John. Make sure you wipe that smudge off so he doesn’t get jealous, yeah?”

“Listen, if you two are in town on the thirty-first, it’s my birthday, and I thought we could have dinner at Speedy’s? I’ve invited Greg and his son Robbie and my friend Molly, nothing too high stress, I figure if I send out the invites, I can prevent any funny business.”

“We’ll be there with bells on. Night, John.”

“Anytime, Donovan.” He stood up as she quietly walked over to the door, and opened it, then walked out. He closed the door behind her and locked it, checked on Vi, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to Sherlock’s studio.

“Enter.”

John walked into the room to find Sherlock sitting on a stool, staring into space. “Hey.”

“You told her to go on holiday.”

“Of course I did.”

“Good.”

“You’re exhausted, and you haven’t been eating.”

“It’s almost finished,” Sherlock muttered, and rubbed his eyes. “No peeking.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Can I get you to eat something, or do you just want to sleep?”

Sherlock looked up into his eyes and John knew the answer without him uttering another word. He walked over to the stool and helped him to his feet, and all but carried him down the stairs and into their room.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispered as he fell into bed, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, John could hear a rattle of a snore. He shook his head, then climbed into bed, curled around him and breathed out a sigh of relief as Sherlock rolled over, threw his arm over his hip and pulled him tightly into his chest.

“Thank you, love.”


	28. Chapter 28

“Stay is a charming word in a friend's vocabulary.”   
― Amos Bronson Alcott

 

3.24.10

It was on one of the rare nights when John had gone home to his own flat after dinner, he had needed to catch up on bills, or some such rubbish, Sherlock had stopped listening when he was explaining the reason, when he realised how much he wanted him to stay. Not just because it was logical, of course it was. John spent most of his waking and non-waking hours at Baker Street when he wasn’t working, and half of his clothes, and belongings had made their way over, gradually filling up the cupboard that had been Trev’s; but because Sherlock enjoyed his company. He couldn’t say that about many people, though Donovan would remind him he didn’t know many people well enough to make the distinction. He shook his head as he was reminded that he would have to go down to Speedy’s if he did want company tonight, as Donovan was on holiday with… Julian. Right. Julian.

She still hadn’t brought him by, but had stopped by to explain, on the morning after her discussion with John.

 

“Sherlock?”

“Upstairs.”

She had gone up, knowing he would be easier to talk to while he was in the studio. “Hey.”

“Uhmhmmm….” He had been working for hours already and was, in truth finally finished, but was trying his best to not let her know how much it had bothered him that she couldn’t have talked to him -

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I should have spoken to you last night, you would have stopped painting, I know that. I just - John - he knows, he knew what I needed to hear last night. Sherlock. There’s no paint on your brush. I know you aren’t working on it. I know it’s done. It’s remarkable. Has he seen it yet?”

Sherlock sighed and put the brush down, then sat down on the stool and turned to look at her. “No. It’s for his birthday. You will be there, with Julian? The thirty-first. Speedy’s?”

“Yes, of course I will - we will.”

“Where is he taking you? Somewhere warm I hope?”

“It was meant to be a surprise, but I found tickets to Barcelona on the bureau, pretty sure I was meant to find them.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s a smart guy, smart enough not to give up on you so easily; he knew if he didn’t let you know, it would drive you mad. You do know I’m happy for you, Donovan, and that I would have kicked your arse if you hadn’t decided to go?”

“Yes. I know.”

“You also know that you can always tell me anything?”

“Yes.”

“And that I will always love you, no matter what?”

Donovan nodded then placed her hands on his face and looked into his eyes. “I do.” She kissed his forehead then pulled back to grin at him and brushed a long curl from his eye. “You need a haircut. When I get back -”

Sherlock nodded, then stood up and took her into his arms. “Send me a postcard?”

“I’ll only be gone a week -” She wrapped her arms around him, and nodded. “Of course I will. You know, you are going to be -”

“Fine. I’ll be fine.” He kissed her hair, then let her go. “So -”

“We leave on the twentieth, back on the twenty-seventh. Plenty of time before John’s big bash.”

“It’s just dinner with friends.”

“For his fortieth?”

Sherlock shrugged as he dropped back onto the stool then spun and glared at the painting, then lightly ran his fingers over it. “Something he won’t talk about - guessing something that happened on his birthday when he was in Afghanistan. Maybe one day -”

“We all have those things we don’t like to talk about. When he’s ready, if he’s ever ready, he will tell you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. You should go, you have packing to do -”

“Want me to walk Vi?”

He shook his head. “No, I need some air, and some breakfast. John made some - he always does, but I was -”

“He does love you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Donovan, he does.”

 

He went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle, then walked over to his desk, pulled open the drawer where he kept the paper he used for clients, and picked up his pen.

 

March 24, 2010 -

John,

It has come to my attention….

 

March 24, 2010 -

Dear John

 

March 24, 2010 -

John -

As you are aware. We have been spending quite a bit of time together, and I find -

 

Sherlock stared at the pile of torn and mangled paper and rubbed his face. Ridiculous. You know how you feel. You know how he feels. Just write the bloody letter.

“It’s different this time. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to know how long it took me to write the letter I wrote to you asking you to marry me. Three weeks.”

“I don’t have three weeks.”

“Will.”

“I’m afraid, Trev. What if I’m wrong?”

“About?”

“How he feels about me. I - I don’t spend a lot of time with people. I don’t even really like people.”

“He’s not people. He’s John. And you know, Will. You know it because of how he looks at you when he thinks you don’t see it. How he touches you, when he brushes past you in the kitchen, or when you hand him a mug of coffee in the morning, he always makes sure to touch your hand. You know. Just write to him. Tell him, so he never has a doubt. Even though you know he already knows. Like how I knew. Write to him, Will.”

 

March 24, 2010 -

John-

From the moment our eyes met at the park in July, I’ve known how I’ve felt about you. Irrational as it may seem, I did fall in love with you in that moment, and I wish we had met sooner than we did, but I have the feeling we met when we were supposed to. Again, illogical, no scientific basis for any of this - whatever this is, but it is something that makes sense to me. You and I make sense.

I am writing this out, so I get it right. I don’t usually, as you already know, have a difficult time expressing myself, but I want you to know how much you have come to mean to me, in the short time we have been together. You have made me want to be stronger, braver, enough. Enough for you to stay. And you have, stayed. I didn’t expect that, to be honest. Even before Trev died, I was accustomed to people leaving me, I know how to be alone. I have realised I am a better person, however, when I am with you. 

What I am trying to say, trying to ask you is - will you move in with me? 

I know you have your own flat, perhaps you need those nights alone because you have your own need for solitude. I understand that I can be a bit much at times, and I am not asking you to be Donovan, I never wanted her to be who she became, we both needed each other after Trev died, and we fell into a routine, a routine that helped us to heal eventually, and led me, in quite a circuitous route to finally finding my heart again. 

On Valentine’s Day you told me I was your home. You are my home, and my heart, John, and I would very much like it if you took up residence here, with me on a permanent basis. 

Much love,  
Sherlock

 

“It’s rubbish.”

“No, Will. It’s very good. And he will love having a Holmes original. I have the feeling it will never be lost.”

Sherlock grinned up at the ceiling and swore as he felt a tear travel down his face. “Goodbye, Trev.”

“Goodbye, Will.”


	29. Chapter 29

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”   
-Plato

 

“I can trim your hair for you if you want me to,” John mumbled to Sherlock as he watched him tuck the stray curl behind his ear that had been bothering him all night.

“Donovan -”

“Ah. She’s back -”

“Couple of days.”

“I could do it for you. When I was in rehab, I cut hair when they realised I needed something to do before I drove them and myself completely insane, and as I had the knack for it, I considered becoming a barber before Greg finagled me a job -”

“I’m sure he didn’t have to finagle too hard. He wouldn’t be half the DI without - sorry.”

John grinned at him and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It won’t take me too long, unless -”

“Unless, what?” Sherlock looked up at him and shook his head. “I’ve worn it this way since I was a kid.”

“Is it because you like it?”

“Honestly?” John nodded at him and Sherlock shrugged, then looked away. “Trev. He liked it. He would trim it for me, and then when -”

“So, you kept it long for him,” John asked quietly, as he lifted a curl and let it twirl around his finger.

“You like it this way.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and moved to get up from the couch.

“I won’t lie, I like them too. But it’s not the curls I love, you know. It’s just gilding the lily far as I’m concerned. It’s your hair, Sherlock, if you want me to cut it, I’ll do it however you want.”

Sherlock blinked at him, then seemed to make a decision and nodded sharply at him. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

“I won’t.”

Sherlock walked over to his desk and unlocked a drawer, then drew out an envelope. “I was thinking of mailing this to Scotland Yard, or your flat - but.” He walked back over to John and placed the letter on the coffee table, then cleared his throat. “I’m going to go wash my hair, if you were serious about cutting it, I want to do it now. I know it’s late, and you have work in the morning, but I need you, I want you to do this for me, can you?”

“Of course I will.”

Sherlock smiled uncertainly at him, and left the room. John picked up the envelope and ran his fingers over his Sherlock's perfect script, then carefully opened it. He read it once, then again, and once more to be sure he understood what Sherlock was asking of him, then he replaced the letter back into the envelope, and laid it on the coffee table. He closed his eyes and focused on catching his breath, then got up from the couch and walked into the bedroom, undressed, then walked into the bathroom and slipped into the shower behind Sherlock, and took over washing his hair.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Sherlock spun and faced him, the shampoo nearly drifting into his eyes.

“Yes. Of course, yes.”

“Just like that?”

John smiled at him and wiped the bubbles from his face. “Just like that. I know, Sherlock. God. I would have stayed that first morning, when I came to look for my keys. If you had asked, I would have stayed then. I knew, too. When you turned and nodded at me, at the park - I knew. I didn’t know precisely what I knew then, but I knew at that moment, one day, one day, I would find you, and I would find the part of me that had been missing - I never believed in that kind of stuff before - before the day I shook your hand for the first time, but when I left the flat that morning, I knew what, who you were, and I was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Sherlock asked in a hush.

“Afraid that you didn’t feel the same way, afraid that I would never see you again, afraid that, I don’t know. You do understand, I mean - you know how much I love you, don’t you?”

Sherlock bit his lip, but looked through the water into John’s eyes and sighed. “Yes, John. I do, I know.”

John laughed, then pulled him into a kiss, and turned him around again. “Come on, let’s get that shampoo out of your hair, and then it’s time for a real haircut.”

Sherlock groaned as John ran his fingers through his hair and whispered, “maybe not too short…”

“Whatever you want, love; whatever you want.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers and a bit of angsty fluff...

“Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small it takes time - we haven't time - and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.”   
― Georgia O'Keeffe

 

Molly arrived at work to find an envelope and a single orange rose in a beaker next to it. She sighed as she picked up the flower and lifted it to her nose, then replaced it into the makeshift vase, and opened the envelope.

 

3\. 24. 10 -

Molly - according to the florist and her book of Victorian flowers, an orange rose signifies passion and or enthusiasm. Might I suggest that you inspire both sentiments?

If you are available for a movie and fish fingers and chips tonight, Robbie and I would be delighted if you could come over around 7?

Yours,  
Greg

 

Molly smiled at the note before slipping it back into the envelope, dropping it into her lab coat pocket and pulling out her phone.

 

Thank you for the lovely flower, and yes, I would be happy to join you and Robbie for dinner and a movie tonight, can I bring anything? - M

 

Just yourself. :) - G

 

Molly laughed and put her phone away, then carried the flower into her office, then closed the door and began her day.

 

3\. 25. 10 -

Molly -

I have thought long and hard about this, not just since we figured ourselves out, or whatever it is we are doing now. I never told Angie what happened in Afghanistan. She never asked, and after she became ill, what I had been through became secondary to trying to save her life, and now - I want you to know, or at least I want to try to write it out for you. I don’t think I can ever say these things aloud, and if it is too much for you, I understand if you don’t want to read it. I’m finding when you aren’t with me at night, I’m afraid to go to sleep. You seem to keep the nightmares at bay, somehow. 

It was on the day Robbie was born. It had snowed two days earlier, but that day we were in a convoy that got turned around in a freak sandstorm, and John and I were the only ones who survived the initial attack. I don’t know why they didn’t kill us, but John said something to one of them, the leader I think - I never learned enough of the language, just the basics to get by, but John knew enough to have a conversation with the man who seemed to speak for them, and suddenly the guns that were pointed at us were lowered and we were taken captive. There were days after when I wished they had just killed us then, Molly. I never told Angie, because once I was home and got to hold Robbie, I understood why I survived. I survived so I could be Robbie’s father. I don’t know why I feel I can share this with you, but, I do. I trust you, Molly, and I know you are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and I know you will be honest with me if you don’t want to know this. I remember when you would sit with John and me, on those nights when you managed to convince Angie to go home and sleep, you would read to us, or just sit quietly and hold our hands, I can’t even begin to tell you how much it meant to me, just knowing you were there. I hope you know that. 

It’s three in the morning, Robbie will be up in a couple of hours, he’s an early riser, cursed on both sides - Ang always liked her quiet mornings, I’m going to try to sleep for a bit. I miss you, and love you, sweet Molly.

-G

(the striped tulip means ‘beautiful eyes’ according to the book…)

 

Molly added the tulip to the rose and carefully put the letter away in her desk, then sat down and closed her eyes, suddenly remembering the day when they finally came home, then shook her head and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen.

 

3.25.10

Greg -

I want to know everything, everything you feel you can tell me. I know enough of what John went through from the wounds I helped treat when he was finally discharged from hospital, and from what you’ve allowed me to see, but if it helps for you to write it out, if it helps to know that I know, I want to read it. I want to be a witness for you, love. Just know there is nothing you can write that will make me change how I feel about you. I am so very glad you made it home. 

I love you -

-M

 

3.27.10

This morning, the sunflower, a bit awkward perhaps, but on this grey, drizzly morning, it cheered me up; hope it makes your own surroundings a bit brighter. According to the book, it can symbolise several sentiments, for me - appreciation and admiration, they are close in meaning, I suppose… 

You’ll never know what it meant to me to read your note. You are so strong, Molly. One day, perhaps you’ll tell me of your life, so I may be a witness for you in return? From experience, I have learned that the strongest people are that way for a reason - just know I am here, Molly, for you, to listen to you, should you ever wish, if you ever - sorry - Robbie just asked if you would come to dinner this weekend, and I promised I would relay the message. You will let me know if you tire of our company, won’t you?

All my appreciation and admiration -  
-G

 

John walked into the morgue and stopped in his tracks. “Sunflower - don’t tell me, he is wooing you with flowers?”

Molly turned and glared at him. “Yes. He is. It’s sweet.”

“Sorry. It is. It just - I’ll shut up, now.”

“Good. Now what do you want?”

“I have a bit of news.” She couldn’t help but smile at the twinkle in his eyes, a new thing since he’d been seeing Sherlock.

“Well, come on, spill it -”

“He asked me to move in with him.”

“When?” 

“Last night, he wrote me a letter two days earlier, and he gave it to me last night.”

Molly grinned and wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so happy for you, John. It’s brilliant, it’s absolutely - wait, what about Harry?”

“What about Harry?”

“The flat -”

“I’ll let it out, there will be someone who wants to take it, it’s in a great location, if she wants, I’ll let her deal with it. I will leave it furnished, I don’t care, most of my things are already at Baker Street anyway, and Harry won’t mind all that much.”

“You know how she worries.”

John rolled his eyes at her and kissed her cheek, then whispered, “thank you.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him, confused at his abrupt change of tone and subject and muttered, “what for?”

“If you hadn’t been there for me, for us - for Greg and me, when we came home, you and Angie, you gave us a reason to get better. You saw us as we were before, who we still were, not what happened to us. You gave me a chance, Molly. I wasn’t sure, I didn’t know why I survived, but you, you’re the reason I found a way to get through everything so I could find him. Shit. Mol - don’t cry, sweetie. I didn’t mean -” He held her tighter in his arms and let her cry into his chest. “It’s okay, Mol. Everything is okay, sweetie.”

After a few minutes, she caught her breath and pulled away from him, sighing as he gently wiped her tears away with his hands. “I have work to do. So do you. We are still on for Speedy’s on your birthday, correct? You aren’t going to back out at the last minute are you?”

John shook his head at her and studied the sunflower for a moment. “Not a chance. Sherlock is planning the menu, no way he’ll let me off the hook.” He paused and his voice dropped to a hush. “It really is a beautiful flower if you look closely enough at it, isn’t it?” He kissed the top of her head then turned away and walked out of the morgue.

Molly stared after him for a moment, then pulled out her phone and with slightly trembling fingers sent Greg a text, wondering if she was going to ever get used to the jumble of feelings that seemed to be rushing through her all of the time now.

I could never grow tired of either of you, my love. Meet me for lunch later? - M

Pick you up at 12? - G

Yes, please. :) - M

 

As the hands reached twelve, and she found herself with a double homicide, Greg walked into the morgue with a take-away bag. “Heard through the grapevine. Have a bite before you start?”

Molly nodded as she watched him drop into the stool and dropped the bag on the workspace.

“John tell you?”

“Yeah, he came by this morning.” She hung up her lab coat and walked over to him, again struck by the way he looked at her now, as if he were trying to memorise her. She blinked at him, then kissed him gently. “I miss you too, at night, when we aren’t together. I’m already - sorry, I didn’t realise how it would feel, this, us -”

“Molly?” She saw the questions flash through his eyes and she shook her head.

“No, it’s good, it’s more than, it’s - you’re brilliant. It’s just, I’ve always - except for John, I’ve mostly been on my own, I’ve always focused on work, and now - I’m having to rearrange things, does that make sense?”

He touched her face gently and nodded. “Yeah, it does. You’ll tell me, if things get to be too much, if -”

“No, I mean yes, but it isn’t - I want this, all of it, all of you. You and Robbie - and I want to tell you, I want you to know me, everything, it’s just going to take a bit of time.” She took a deep breath in and sighed. “Panang?”

“Yep.” He grinned at her and picked up the bag. “Office?”

“Office. I love you.”

“Love you too.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Harry...

“This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.”   
― Arundhati Roy

 

He had thought about writing her a note and slipping it under her door, but he knew he owed her more than that. She was the first person to see him when he got home, she had been at the airport, she had known how bad it had been without asking him a single question, and she also knew she was the wrong person to help him to get back on his feet, but she had always been there when he needed her. When she was the only one who understood. 

Before he knew it, he had climbed the stairs that led to her flat, and was knocking on the door.

“Yeah, just a second.” He heard her bang around the flat for a moment, then she flung open the door and nodded at him. “Hey. I’m just on the phone with Clara-”

“I can come back -”

“Nope. Come on in. Drink?”

He shook his head as he fell onto her couch and closed his eyes. He still remembered the day when he was able to offer her this place, their great aunt, the one decent member of their family had left the house to him. She had loved Harry, probably even more than she had cared for him, but it wasn’t done to leave property to women in her family, even in the last decade of the twentieth century, and he had known she had wanted to give them both a safe haven from their father. The way her eyes shined as he opened the door for her, then handed her the keys, telling her it was hers -

“Tell me.”

“Hmm?”

“You have news.”

John laughed and glanced over at her. “You probably can guess -”

“I never guess.”

“No, you don’t. Sherlock asked me to move in with him last night, and I told him yes.”

Harry nodded and smiled at him, then kissed his cheek. “Good. About time you had someone, John. Now, when am I gonna meet this bloke?”

“My birthday? At Speedy’s - 7ish?”

“Number 40. It’s a wonder, John Hamish Watson, that you have made it so long.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

“So, do you want me to keep the flat for you, in case -”

“No.” John shook his head, and sighed as she waited for him to finish. “He’s it, Harry. If you want to let it out, please, do what you want with it. I’ve already talked to the bank, it’s all in your name now.”

“John?” He watched as her eyes glowed as they had when she realised she had a place of her own at 17, he had been on leave then, and was soon gone after - where had he been stationed - he couldn’t even remember now, but she was finally safe. He handed her the envelope that he had signed earlier that day, and felt her tremble as she took it. “You know you always have a place here, if things -”

“I know, Harry, I know. So, Saturday night, 7 - you’ll be there? Please?”

“Of course I will. You know, I will have to have a chat with him, just so he understands what’s what.”

John laughed and reached over and pulled her into his arms and held her tight for a moment. “I don’t expect anything less from you, Harry. I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know, John. I know. Love you, too, big brother. Glad you’re finally happy.”

He pulled away and looked at her. “You can tell?”

“Oh yeah, I can tell. I know unhappy and and I know happy, and you, brother dear, have joined the ranks of the happy. It’s about time.”

“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” He got to his feet and walked towards the door, then turned and faced her again. “I’m leaving my furniture, if you want to keep it, fine, if you want to get rid of it all -”

“No worries, go and be happy; I’ll pack up the junk, store it for you.”

“Harry -”

“Consider it your present, hmm?”

John smiled at her, then blew her a kiss. She caught it and opened her hand as she always had, then held it to her face. “Just be happy, John.”

“See you Saturday.”

“With bells on.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honour of the late, great William Goldman who passed away this week.

“Love is many things, none of them logical.”  
― William Goldman

 

Somehow John ended up working behind the bar, as Sherlock had needed Ms. Hudson’s help with his birthday dinner; he didn’t mind, as it gave him something to do while he waited for his guests to arrive. He was pulling a couple of pints when a man cleared his throat and asked him politely, “I understand that a Sherlock Holmes lives in this building, I was wondering if you happen to know him.”

“I might.” He slid the pints down the bar, then gave his attention to the man who stood in front of him. Well-dressed, almost too polished down to his perfectly manicured nails, but there was a light in his hazel eyes, perhaps a decent sense of humour, John considered as he wiped down the bar and waited for him to make his case. 

“Actually, to be honest, I was just curious if he really existed. I couldn’t find a trace of him online, no listed phone number, no phone number at all, but I was finally able to track him down using the records that led me here, he’s listed as owner of the building. I apologise, I’m going about this badly. I’m Colin -” He held out his hand to John, and before John could think, he shook his hand and offered him a seat.

“You got the letter back, then.”

Colin wasn’t as surprised as John thought he might be when he answered with a nod. “I did. How did you know about - do you know Paul?”

“Drink?”

“Whatever you have on tap is fine, thank you.”

John pulled his pint and set it in front of him carefully. “I was the one who found the letter, a year ago tonight, actually. Took me a few months, but I was able to return it to the author - uhm - you did know that Paul didn’t write it.”

“Of course, from the moment I saw the handwriting. I know him, you see. Had known him for years, you get to know things about people -”

“And yet -”

“I was devastated all the same when I lost it, yes.” Colin took a sip of his ale and nodded. “You read it, you must have. Well, even though it wasn’t in his hand, I understood the sentiment was his, his feelings were in those words, and I took the letter to be a gift from him - if that makes sense? I know it isn’t logical.”

John chuckled and shook his head. “Over the last year, I’ve learned there is little logical about love. To answer your question, Sherlock is very much a real person, I can get him for you, if you wish to speak with him?”

“No. Can you just thank him for me, for us? Paul and I were married this past June, and I don’t think it would have been possible without his help, without his words. Paul knew I wouldn’t be fooled, and it wasn’t his intention to fool me, I understood that. I had known of his feelings for years, but had been afraid to approach him, not quite sure - and then I was in a lengthy relationship, that I eventually ended because although I liked my partner very much, had grown accustomed to him, I wasn’t in love with him. I don’t know that I ever was. Paul knew when it was over, and I tried to let him know.” He stopped speaking and drank down half the pint, then shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but - you are Sherlock’s partner, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I am, how -”

“Your wariness, your protectiveness of him. The way your eyes lit up when I spoke his name, they way you said it. I’m in finance, have been for the last decade and a half, and I think people have this perception that those who work with numbers, or money, they don’t understand people very well. I know when couples are in love, and when they are beginning to fall out of love, not by how they spend their money, but how they speak of their partner. You haven’t been together long, but I can tell - sorry, I know I sound like a fortune cookie - you two are very much in love. He’s very lucky -?”

“John. John Watson.”

“Thank you for helping to get the letter back to me, John.” Colin pulled out his wallet and saw John’s eyes light up as he saw the folded letter within it.

“On the house.”

“Thanks again. My card if either of you ever need a banker for any reason.” He handed John his business card, then drained his drink and smiled at him, as he slipped from the stool, and strode purposefully out the door.

 

“Hey -” John looked up to see Greg grinning at him, and came out from behind the bar to hug him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine for someone of my advanced years.”

“Aw, come on, yer like fine wine - or - at least a good vinegar by now?” 

“Gee, thanks.” John punched his arm playfully, then went back behind the bar.

“Got you working on your birthday?”

“Sherlock needed Ms. Hudson’s help with dinner, he has a whole menu planned out… Molly and Robbie?”

“They are picking up your birthday present.”

John groaned and shook his head as he pulled a pint for Greg. “Seriously? She knows -”

“Nah, mate, it’s okay, you’ll like it.” He took a sip of his ale and studied his friend’s face. “So, things are good right now?”

“Yeah, things are-” John wiped the bar down again, then stopped and gazed back at Greg. “You know how you’d sometimes get the feeling that things were so good, they couldn’t get any better -”

“And then, things went to hell?”

“Yeah, that. I’m afraid to think too much, it’s too easy. I’ve never been with anyone who just gets me the way he does, he knows when to push, and when to give me space, but he does it in a way that I can’t see him doing it. I know I sound mad- and now that we are living together full time, it’s just the best thing ever, and I just have this feeling that I’m going to -”

Greg turned away from him as he watched Sherlock walk out of the kitchen, and approach the bar. “John, the back room is ready, the first course... ah, Greg. So glad you could make it.”

“Bloody hell! I almost didn’t recognise you, you look -” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and grinned as Greg muttered under his breath, “like a grown up.”

“John’s doing. I thought it was about time, it’s practical, too. Less paint in my hair these days. Martha will take over for you, John. Molly and Robbie?”

“They’ll be here shortly. Picking up the present.”

“Right. Good.” Sherlock winked at him and John groaned, then made his way to the back room, and waited for the party to begin.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday party...

“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.” ― Oscar Wilde

 

After three courses, John pushed back his chair and simply watched the people around him. Greg was holding a worn out Robbie in his lap, as Molly and Harry were arguing good naturedly as they always had in the past, and Sherlock was having a debate with Julian, something about art or -

“I warned Julian not to get into a conversation with Sherlock about Shakespeare, seems he took it as a challenge,” Donovan muttered next to him.

John laughed and shook his head. “He’s enjoying himself. He’s slowly learning that not everyone is an idiot. Just most people, most of the time, but there are exceptions. I think he approves.”

“Yeah, I think he does. It’s partly due to you.”

John shook his head, then caught Sherlock’s sidelong glance in his direction, and wondered if he would always feel the way he did at the moment, as if Sherlock could see into his soul. “Ridiculous.”

“Yeah, you two -” Donovan began, then her words faded as Julian looked over at her. “I think we’ll be heading out shortly after cake.”

John rolled his eyes and sighed. “Lord, there’s cake, too?”

“Of course there’s cake, you thought you were going to get off that easily?” Donovan nodded at Ms. Hudson, and she slipped from the room for a moment, the lights were dimmed, then she walked back in with an enormous cake covered in candles. “Really, all forty?”

“Forty-one. One for luck,” Molly mouthed at him from across the table, then blew him a kiss and he rolled his eyes again as they began singing to him, and for once, he didn’t mind all that much.

Greg, with a snoring Robbie on his shoulder, and Molly left shortly after Donovan and Julian, leaving just Harry behind, chatting with Sherlock. John sighed as Ms. Hudson dropped into the chair next to him and poured out a glass of wine for herself. “Closed up early. I haven’t told you how tickled I was to see his new haircut, he’s finally - I’ve known him since he was still a student, he was nineteen when he gave me the job of running this place. He and Trev - Sherlock had money from his parents, he bought the building and he put real money into fixing things up, Trev was the extrovert, loved hanging out with everyone, he was a charming character, brilliant lad. Broke my heart what happened to him, what happened to the three of them. I didn’t think I’d ever see the two of them happy again.” She leaned over and kissed John’s cheek, then rubbed the evidence away. “Whatever else you do in your life, John Watson, you have helped make this corner of the world a better, happier place. Happy Birthday, sweetie.” She got up and grinned at him. “Dishes to do…”

“Mind a hand?” 

“Not at all.”

 

Harry took a sip of wine and put her glass down. “My brother has never had anyone to care for him the way you obviously do. Molly, she loves him as only a best friend can, but, you see him in a way no one else ever has. The day after you asked him to move in with you, he signed over the house to me. It was left to him by a great aunt, when I was seventeen, and needing a safe place, when he was on leave, he spent a couple of days helping me move into the flat that I still live in. It was his way of taking care of me. He will always have a place if he needs it -” She shook her head as he began to interrupt her. “No, I know. Now that I’ve seen the two of you together, met you, finally, I can tell that he’s found his place, his home, and it’s you. I’m so very glad, Sherlock. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Sherlock stood up and helped her from her chair then surprised them both by giving her a hug. “Thank you for being here, Harry. I hope you will have dinner with us once in a while?”

“Try and stop me, sweet. I’m gonna go say good night to John. I have to say this was the best birthday he’s ever had.”

His eyes twinkled at her as he sat back in his chair. “Nice of you to say, Harry.”

“If you ask John, I’m one of the most honest people he knows, he’d probably say brutally honest, and that would be kind. So when I tell you something -”

“Got it. Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome. Night, Sherlock.”

“Night.” 

He sat there until the candles began to flicker out, then started when he felt John’s hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” He watched as John dropped into the chair next to him, then picked up his hand, and kissed it lightly. 

“Didn’t have a chance to tell you. Colin dropped by while you and Ms. Hudson were cooking, he had managed to track you down -” He flinched and John shook his head. “No, he was just curious if you were real; he wanted to thank you for the letter, he and Paul were married this summer. He knew from the moment he read it that Paul hadn’t written it, by the handwriting, but he understood that your words were simply his way of telling him how he felt -” He raised Sherlock’s hand to his lips again and brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “Harry probably told you, but this was by far the best birthday I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss his forehead and whispered, “I haven’t even given you your birthday present yet.”

John’s eyes brightened at him and he grinned. “Oh, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded, then blew out the remaining candles, and helped John to his feet. “It’s upstairs.”

“An actual present? You’re spoiling me, now.” John mumbled against Sherlock’s lips, his voice had dropped to the register that made Sherlock’s breath catch, and his thoughts screech to a halt. He made himself take a slow, deep breath in so he could answer him.

“Yes, an actual present, and then I get to unwrap you, John Watson.”

“Damn….”

“Upstairs?”

“Please.”

 

“Close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s palm and felt him shiver, then laid his hand on the completed canvas. 

“It’s finished? Oh - Sherlock.” John let his fingers travel over the surface as he felt Sherlock's arms wrap around him and hold on tightly. “How -?” He opened his eyes and something odd happened to his heart as he saw how Sherlock saw him, the scars that he had once thought made him untouchable had been transformed into something beautiful somehow, more an artifact of his survival as opposed to what had been taken from him. The years he had lost, the love, even the hope of love that he never thought he would have were returned to him in layers of paint.

“Sherlock.” He turned in Sherlock’s arms and leaned into his chest. “I - these last weeks -”

“I know, John. I hope you understand now? I want to be with you, just you. After I lost him, I thought that was it for me, I’d had my chance, no one is that lucky twice. You proved me wrong, John. That doesn’t happen very often, but I am so glad, so very glad to have been wrong. Happy Birthday, John.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after the birthday party... note the bump in rating...

“I was in his hands, he called me by the thunder at my ear. I was in his hands: I was being changed; all that I could do was cling to him. I did not realize, until I realized it, that I was also kissing him, that everything was breaking and changing and turning in me and moving toward him.”  
― James Baldwin

 

John had thought they had made love before that night, but as he looked down into Sherlock’s eyes, and saw the tears slide down his remarkable face, he knew he had been mistaken. He didn’t have the words, as he slid into him, easily and completely; he felt Sherlock’s strong fingers tighten in his hair, a shudder of a groan rippled through him and he began to move, slowly and deliberately. He wanted to last, needed to make this -

“John.” All it took was that one word to tip him over the edge, and Sherlock’s strong, trembling arms were around him, cradling him, his lips were in his hair as they both shivered through the aftershocks. “I’ve got you, John. I’m here, just breathe.” 

The last things he was vaguely conscious of as he drifted off to sleep were of Sherlock shifting him just enough so he could retrieve a flannel, then gentle hands were cleaning him. He couldn’t ever remember being touched in such a loving way before, no one had ever treated him as if he were precious, something to treasure before that moment, then once more, kisses were breathed into his hair, arms and legs tangled around him… “Sleep, John. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he was. Usually Sherlock was awake before John opened his eyes, usually sitting up, sketch pad on his lap, pencil flying across the paper; this morning, he was still fast asleep, tucked neatly into John’s side, one hand resting lightly on his chest, one leg wrapped around both of John’s, as if making sure he couldn’t get away. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s newly shorn hair and felt him tremble against his side. “Morning.”

“Is it, already?”

“Mmhmm… nearly eleven.”

Sherlock’s stomach rumbled and John laughed, then rolled over so he could kiss him properly, sweetly and thoroughly. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in some leftover -”

“If you say birthday cake…”

John snorted, then pulled Sherlock into his arms and sighed as he curled around him again. “I was thinking something more along the lines of toast and tea?”

“In a little while?” Sherlock whispered into his neck, and John rolled his eyes at the ceiling as he soon heard a soft snore near his ear, but tightened his arms around him, and toast and tea were forgotten as he too eventually went back to sleep.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Robbie

“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.”  
― Dr. Seuss

 

“You’re quiet today, Robbie, anything you want to talk about?” Sherlock asked as he put a plate of toasted cheese in front of him.

The boy shrugged and focused on eating his sandwich for a moment, then put it down, and looked up at him. “You ever have someone that used to be there, but isn’t anymore? I mean like, won’t ever come back?”

Sherlock nodded, then sat on the couch next to him and picked up Robbie’s drawing. “You’re trying to draw her.”

“My mum. I have pictures of her in my room, but I don’t really remember her face.”

“What do you remember?”

Robbie shrugged and closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “How she smelled, like strawberries, I think it was her shampoo, and humming, I remember her humming - that’s about it. D’ya like Mo?”

“Mo?” Sherlock asked, a bit confused.

“Molly. Back when I was little, I couldn’t say the ‘l’, so I called her Mo.” He picked up his sandwich again and finished it, then took the offered napkin, and wiped his hands off. “Papa likes her a lot.”

“How can you tell?”

“When she comes over for dinner, he’s a lot happier. He smiles and laughs more. He’s not as happy when she’s not there, I think he thinks I don’t know.” He picked up his sketch pad and pencil again, but paused, as if he was waiting for an answer of some kind. Sherlock cleared his throat and started to reach for the empty plate, then stopped, and looked over at him.

“I lost someone a long time ago, he was my friend for a long time, and there was an accident, and he died, so he isn’t here anymore. And I missed him for a long time. Still do.”

“What was his name?” Robbie asked quietly.

“Trev.”

“But you have Uncle Doc now.”

Sherlock felt his face heat up and he nodded. “Yes, I have Uncle Doc now.”

“And that is a good thing. Right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is it okay to still miss someone who isn’t here, while you like someone else who is here. I mean - is it okay to like more than one person if it makes you happy? Does it mean you don’t like Trev anymore now that Uncle Doc likes you and you like him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll always like Trev, he was my best friend when I was growing up, I think he would have liked your Uncle Doc a lot, and I think Uncle Doc would have liked him. It used to make me sad when I thought about Trev, because I missed him and people didn’t talk about him because people knew I was sad. But now, I can talk to your Uncle Doc about him, because he wants to know about him, and I’m less sad. I think if you asked Molly about your mum -”

“You don’t think she’d mind? She won’t get sad?”

“She might get a little sad because your mum was her friend and she misses her, but I think she would be happy to tell you about her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock picked up the plate and carried it to the kitchen. “Biscuits?”

“Yes, please! Chocolate?”

“Is there any other kind?” Sherlock heard Robbie giggle, then sigh.

“Gingernuts…”

“Jaffa cakes… don’t know why they call ‘em cakes when they are clearly biscuits…”

“Shortbread.”

“Good one… uhm… chocolate fingers…”

“Ooh, chocolate fingers, haven’t had them in ages.”

“Maybe next time you’re over, I’ll have a packet.” Sherlock put the plate of biscuits on the coffee table then dropped on the couch next to Robbie.

“Ta.”

“You’re welcome, Robbie.”

Robbie paused before he picked up a biscuit and looked over at him. “Uncle Doc is a lot happier now too.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” 

“Well, I miss him because he doesn’t come over so much as he used to, but when I see him, he’s usually smiling or whistling. Didn’t used to so much.”

“Tell you what, one night soon, we’ll have you and your Papa and Molly over for dinner. You pick what we have.”

“Really?”

“Really truly.”

“You’re the best, Sherlock. Not just because you give me biscuits.”

“Thanks, Robbie, not so bad yourself. Thank you for the talk. Not everyone understands the important stuff.”

“For a grown-up, you seem to understand a lot. More than most.” Robbie grabbed a biscuit from the plate and shoved it into his mouth, then went back to working on his drawing.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian visits Baker Street...

“Love isn't the work of the tender and the gentle;  
Love is the work of wrestlers..."  
-Rumi

 

Sherlock was plugging in the kettle when he heard a sharp knock on the door. “Enter.”

Julian Winslow walked into the flat and wiped his feet on the mat, and seemed uncertain as to what to do next.

“Julian. Have a seat, I just put on the kettle.”

He nodded, and took his time taking off his gloves, carefully stowing them in a coat pocket, then removed his coat and hung it on the empty hook, and sat down on the couch, looking as if he were about to face a firing squad.

Sherlock pulled up a chair next to the coffee table and eased into it. “I enjoyed our discussion last week at dinner. Though I still think you are wrong, it was entertaining.”

“As did I. I’m here because I need your advice.”

“About Donovan.”

Julian nodded. “She’s -”

“Unique. Intelligent, beautiful…”

“Yes.”

“And sometimes hard to read.”

Julian blew out a breath, as if in relief and grinned at him. “Yeah. All that. You know that she broke up with me last year, and we recently got back together, well, at least -”

“You two seemed happy at the party.”

“Yeah, I thought we were, thought she -”

“She’s pulling back a bit?”

Julian nodded. “Not sure what I did - didn’t do, I don’t have a clue, and I’m afraid to ask her.”

“Probably nothing.” Sherlock considered. They sat in silence until the kettle whistled, and Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. “Eat breakfast this morning?”

“No.”

“Toast?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.”

Julian got up and walked into the kitchen, and watched Sherlock drop bread into the toaster.

“You’ve known her a long time.”

“Longer than I’ve known anyone.” Sherlock agreed, then turned around to face him. “I could see - to be honest, you are the first boyfriend, significant other, whatever you are to her, that she’s ever introduced me to. So, I can’t say if she acts differently with you than she has with anyone else. I did see her smile at you when we were talking, couldn’t keep her eyes off of you, actually. I did see how you treat her, with respect. When she spoke, you made sure she knew that she had your full attention. What she said mattered to you, and she knew it. I could see how you looked at her, as if you couldn’t quite believe she was there, and you were allowed to be there with her.”

“You saw all that?” Julian asked.

“It’s my job to see things that most people don’t want other people to see; as a writer, and an artist. You’re afraid to push, to tell her what you want, you think she’ll run again.” He turned away again as the toast popped up and he swore under his breath as he burned the tips of his fingers.

“She ran when I told her I loved her, it’s why she broke up with me.”

“Not why.”

“No?”

Sherlock went to the fridge and got out the strawberry jam, then grabbed a couple of knives from the drawer and put them on the table next to the plates of toast. “No. She’s always been afraid of getting too attached to people, since Trev. You telling her that you loved her was a trigger - it spooked her. But she regretted breaking up with you the day she did it. She had time to think, had time to herself, and for the first time in a long time, she realised she missed someone, she missed you. She just wasn’t sure if you’d give her another chance.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock poured out a cup of tea for each of them, then dumped four spoons of sugar into his and pushed the sugar towards Julian. “No. You just want milk. Yes?”

Julian shook his head. “How -”

“Coffee at dinner. Most people who take milk or cream in their coffee treat their tea the same way.” He turned to the fridge once more and pulled out the pint of milk with a sigh. “Last bit is yours, have to go and get more before John gets home tonight.”

“So -?” Julian added milk to his tea, then blew on it before he took a sip.

“So. Do you know what you want?”

Julian nearly choked on his tea, but managed to recover and nodded. “Yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“But -”

“Julian. Love isn’t for the faint of heart. You are smart enough, you were patient enough to give her time, and you survived having dinner with me. You are obviously strong enough to tell her what you want and fight for her if necessary. Tell her. Tell her in a way that leaves her no doubt how you feel about her. And if she walks away this time, you have to decide for yourself if she is worth fighting for; worth waiting for. Sometimes you can wait too long to let someone know -”

“Yeah.” They stood there in the kitchen drinking tea and eating toast in silence until Julian finished, and wiped his hand on a napkin, then cleared his throat. “Thank you. I know you are the only real family she has -”

“If you are asking for my blessing, you have it - if that makes any difference at all, I don’t have any idea, but I wish you luck.” Sherlock took the offered hand in his and held it for moment before letting go, and walked him to the door.

 

“Donovan brought milk over?” John asked as he opened the fridge.

“I am perfectly capable -” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sat curled up in his chair, working on a sketch for a new painting he was planning out.

“How many times have you gone to the shops?” 

“In my life?”

“In your life.”

“By myself?”

“Umhmmm…”

“Including today? Once.”

John turned from the fridge and stared at him. “Once. You are -”

“I am thirty-seven.”

“You are nearly forty and you had never been to a store by yourself.”

Sherlock sighed and dropped his pencil, then erased the line he had just put down. “Never saw the need before today.”

“And what was different about today?”

“The milk was for you.” Sherlock looked up at him, and was struck by the look on John’s face. “John?”

“No, it’s fine. I - just.” He left the kitchen, having forgotten why he was in there in the first place, and walked over to Sherlock’s chair and knelt carefully in front of him. “You did that for me.”

“Yes. Of course I did.”

“I know how difficult -”

“It wasn’t easy, but I don’t want - I don’t ever want you to think -” He laid his sketch pad and pencil aside, then reached out to touch John’s face. “You inspire me to be better, John. Stronger. Braver. I’m not afraid anymore, John. I’m not afraid to love you, even if you decide to leave, change your mind - whatever happens - I won’t be broken again. I just thought you should know that.”

“God - I love you.” John whispered as he stood up and helped Sherlock to his feet. “You do the same for me. You do. Just knowing -” He shook his head and pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace and breathed out against his shoulder, sighing as he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap slowly around him. “I’ll be here as long as you want me -”

“Always, John. There will never be a time when I don’t want you. You are as necessary to me as milk is to your tea…”

“Bed?”

“Bed.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another dinner party... and too much thinking.

“He experienced the singular pleasure of watching people he loved fall in love with other people he loved.”  
― Hanya Yanagihara

 

4.10.2010

It was a tight fit around the table, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone. Molly sat between Greg and Robbie, while Sherlock sat on Robbie’s right hand side, leaving John next to Greg. If they had Donovan and Julian over on the same night, they’d have to get a bigger table, or use the back room at Speedy’s again. 

As he watched the people he loved chatter amongst themselves, he realised that not only were Greg and Molly falling in love more each time he saw them together, and Sherlock who was already fond of Robbie and Greg, was becoming attached to Molly as well, but he was finding himself falling in love again with the people he had always considered more than friends, and way more than family. He thought it was because he was seeing them through Sherlock’s eyes; perhaps it was simply watching as his lover was hearing the old stories for the first time. Lover… is that what he was to him? Yes. But he was more… he was quickly becoming more than necessary to him. What was more than necessary? Essential? Was there even a word? His breath caught as Sherlock’s hand had found his under the table, and had threaded their fingers together, even as he was chuckling over Greg’s retelling of John’s first day at the Yard. 

 

1.29.2006

His first ‘case’ hadn’t been a case at all. The ‘boys’ in the department and even Molly had conspired to create a fake case; complete with corpse from the med school cooler. The moment they arrived on the scene, Greg had realised what was going on, and managed not to give the game up until John recognised the telltale scent of the chemicals the med school used to clean the body before they let the students use it to learn basic anatomy, and he turned to face his former commanding officer and new boss with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

“Sorry, John. Honest, I thought it was a real case until I, well, I saw Molly in a crime scene uniform -”

“Molly? Where? I didn- “ John glanced down to find his best friend grinning at him as she pulled off the terrible auburn mustache, then yanked off the equally hideous wig, and shook out her hair at him. “You will pay for this Molly Hooper - I swear….”

 

4.10. 2010

“Where were you tonight - at dinner?” Sherlock asked quietly as they undressed for bed, then slipped under the covers together.

“Hmm?”

“You weren’t really listening, it was as if you were studying them -” Sherlock’s breathing eased as John rested his head against his chest and reached for his hand, then kissed the inside of his wrist.

“Before I met you, I don’t think I would have been able to see Greg and Molly falling in love. I mean, I don’t think I would have recognised the signs, how they would glance at each other, even as they sat right next to each other, the way their breathing changed as his arm rested around her shoulder, and she leaned just the tiniest bit against him. And then I realised I was remembering who they were all over again, because they were telling you the old stories, the stories I knew but hadn’t heard in so long that they had almost become a part of someone else’s history. I had become so used to them being in my life, I hadn’t realised I had begun to take them for granted, until tonight. I had forgotten how much I really like them, and how lucky I am that they are still here. I know how easily - shit. I’m sorry.” 

He sat up and looked into Sherlock’s eyes and shivered as Sherlock shook his head then kissed him lightly. “No. It’s okay, John. I know. I was watching you tonight, and I saw your face change, something in your eyes, I don’t know, they became softer tonight, they lost some of the edge, and I think you became a bit lighter tonight - you lost some of the weight from your shoulders because you knew that Greg and Molly and Robbie were going to be fine. Finally. You had been carrying so much guilt, so much pain that was never your responsibility, never yours to bear; tonight you were able to let it all go.”

John leaned in closer and kissed him, recalling their first kiss which was in reality just a few weeks ago, and yet, as Sherlock claimed his mouth, and his hands traveled down his back until they settled on his hips directing him where he wanted him, it was as if they had known each other for years, that they had been loving one another since -

“You’re thinking too hard, John.”

“Sorry.”

“No more thinking…”

“No more thinking.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning to tie up some loose threads...

“Constant use had not worn ragged the fabric of their friendship.”  
― Dorothy Parker

 

“You really should get your own phone, you know?” Donovan grinned at Sherlock as she sat across the table from him, then laid her hand over his, surprised at how at ease he seemed to be.

“People might start texting at me if I do that.” Sherlock offered her a tight grin and she knew he was putting up a brave front.

“I would have met you at Speedy’s, or just come to the flat - what is it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Needed to know that I could do it.”

“Because -?”

“Just needed to.” He glanced down at her hand and slowly blew out the breath he had been holding. “He asked you then.”

“Uhmmhmm. Told me he had your blessing. He’s a bit old-fashioned.” 

“I like him. Want a coffee?”

“Might as well, especially if you’re buying this round.” She winked at him as he stood up, then reached out to grab his hand. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Regular, yeah? Be right back.”

Donovan looked down at her hand, then up and out the window of the coffee shop, the last time they had been there was the night their lives had changed forever. She looked down at her hand again, and shook her head.

“He’s a good egg, Sal, he loves you in the way you deserve to be loved.”

“I know.”

“You don’t need me anymore, and Will is fine, more than fine. He’s trying to prove it to you today.”

“I know. He doesn’t have to.”

“He does. For you, but also for John, but mostly for himself. You two were always so much stronger than you thought, so much braver. I’m so proud of you - listen to me, I was the youngest, and just because I’m dead I think I get to be the dispenser of wisdom.”

Donovan chuckled and carefully wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Be happy, Donovan.”

 

“One extra large black coffee. Never understood how you could stomach the stuff.” Sherlock carefully placed the mug in front of her and eased back into his chair. She rolled her eyes as he poured the sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly. “I do get to be your ‘Best Mate’ don’t I?” He asked with a real grin this time, then saw the look in her eyes, and gently took her hand in his. “It’s time, Sal. Time to let him go.”

“I know.” She met his eyes for a moment, then picked up her coffee and took a sip.

“So, tell me… and don’t leave out any details, come on, spill it!”

Donovan blushed into her coffee, then put it down and searched her friend’s face. He really was fine, more than fine, and she found herself giggling as she began to tell him.

 

“John.”

“Molly? Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine, just can you meet me for lunch?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t tell Greg.”

“Molly?”

“Please?”

“Yeah, where?” John looked over at Greg’s office, and saw him sitting back in his chair, deep in conversation, had been for the last ten minutes. “Really? Okay, yeah, I’ll be there in five.” He ended the call and dropped it in his pocket, then walked over to Greg’s door and poked his head in the doorway. “Cap? Everything okay?”

“On hold again… lunch?”

“Yep, be back in a bit. Bring you back something?”

“Coffee? Better make it two.” Greg sighed and pinched his nose as the hold music continued on.

 

“Molly?”

“John.”

“What are you doing?”

“I want to do this.” She looked into the window of the jewelry shop and bit her lip. “He was brave enough to tell me - I want to ask him to marry me.”

“So soon? Are you -”

“John.”

“Okay, yeah. Come on then. I have twenty-five, no twenty-four minutes…”

“No pressure, then?” Molly grinned at him and pulled open the door, dragging him in with her.

“No pressure.” John laughed as she turned to roll her eyes at him, then stopped smiling as he stood in front of the case of rings. “Molly.”

“Yeah. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Good afternoon, how may I assist today?” The young woman with perfect hair and nails in a peach suit looked them over and raised an eyebrow.

Molly started then nodded. “I’d like to look at the engagement rings - or something that a man could wear, a promise ring?”

The woman nodded and studied them briefly for a moment, attempting to determine their relationship, but failed. Feeling generous, John decided to help her out. “I’m her best friend, she just needed a bit of moral support.”

“Ah… of course, very kind of you -”

“John, and this is Molly. He is a DI at the yard, so -”

“I’m Claire, sorry. It’s my first week.” Her posh accent faded and as she smiled at them, John saw the small town girl beneath the perfection and grinned back at her. 

“I’m also looking for something, not sure a ring is what I want, but -”

Molly turned to face him and her eyes lit up. “John?”

“I know, Molly, and when you know -”

“Yeah, I know, John.” She took his hand and gave it a squeeze as Claire began to search for a tray of rings.

“Ah, yes - here it is. This one, right here.”

Molly glanced down at the ring the assistant pointed to and looked up at John. 

“Yeah. It’s perfect, Mol.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concluding bit.... xox

“I was determined that in fiction anyway two men should fall in love and remain in it for the ever and ever that fiction allows.”   
― E.M. Forster

 

John sat in front of the typewriter and sighed. He had bought paper, white out, as many ribbons as the man had in stock, though he wasn’t sure they would still work, he had promised that the ink would at least last through one brief letter. He looked at the clock on the mantle and guessed he had at the very least half an hour, Ms. Hudson had promised she would ring him up if he was on his way back to the flat. 

Good. Right. Now.

 

May 2, 2010

Sherlock -

I thought about going the traditional route and get down on one knee, but you, we, aren’t traditional, and my knees are getting old. So, I spent some time looking for a typewriter, not sure how long it will work, or if you will even ever use it, but I thought if it crossed your mind to write the Great British Novel, you might not want to do it in pen and ink. 

As you know, I am not a writer, of any sort, and most definitely would never be mistaken for a poet, not on any planet, or universe, but it was important for me to have the time to get the words out as correctly as I could.

I love you. I think in some way, I have loved you before I even met you. I don’t know how a thing like that is possible, and I am a scientist, of a sort, was a doctor. I believe in the things I can see and touch, but I also know what I know, logical or not. I know I survived Afghanistan for a reason, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the reason was to meet you, to fall madly in love with you, and to spend the rest of my life loving you.

Sherlock Holmes, would you do me the greatest honour of agreeing to marry me, or if that is not something you want to do, at least agree to spend the rest of your life with me? I can’t promise to be anything but what I am, the fallible, all too fragile human being that I am, but I can promise you I will spend the rest of my days loving you, if given the chance.

Yours always,  
John

 

1.29.2011

From The Times:

Mr. W.S.S. Holmes and Mr. J. H. Watson are to be married today in a quiet ceremony in Sussex Downs. Mrs. S. Donovan-Winslow and Mrs. M. Lestrade will serve as witnesses. No further information given at this time.

**Author's Note:**

> *from Twelfth Night


End file.
